Taken By The Storm
by Sagebush
Summary: Three knights. Two enemy princes. One war. The consequences will affect the whole of Albion. "When all is lost, how can you hope?"
1. It Begins

**Name: Taken By The Storm**

**Chapter: One**

**Summary: Two armies meet. Only one will be victorious. The consequences will affect the whole of Albion.**

**AN:** Okay, so I know I'm writing Set In Motion at the moment, but I was having big problems. Big problems as in being so uninspired that I was questioning my own writing career problem. Don't worry though! I think I just re-inspired myself. Well, it was 10:00 PM and I was in bed, and this idea suddenly came into my head. So I started writing, and half an hour later, this is what I got. I will write some more of SIM tomorrow, and I should have plenty of time for writing this weekend, if I can find somewhere to stay. (My mum and dad are away, and so are my brothers, so I'm effectively homeless)

Anyway, this is royal merlin. Yes, there's been a few of these fics recently, but I've been dreaming of writing one of these since I started SIM, so... there. There are dragons in this fic; more than one. Just a warning. And Merlin is the prince of Caerleon, and Balinor isn't alive, though still his father (okay, that got you wondering! He's the prince, but his fathers dead? Who's king?)

Just so you know, the first line came into my head, I started writing, and I have absolutely no idea where this story will go. Hence why the summary is so vague. Also, sorry it's quite short. But it's late, I'm tired, and I've got to get up early tomorrow. Not that I'm complaining... right.

You'll probably want to start reading now, so go ahead. But first: Please, please, please review as well as read. I really want to know what you think, especially after my _big problems_. Uh, yeah. I do have bigger problems (like the voices - you mean you don't have them too?) but the big problem I mentioned above... anyway...

**Edit: **This is a new, revised version of the chapter. It contains more backstory and is generally better written.

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The sun shone as the two armies faced each other.

Steel glinted in the light, while the very air seemed to freeze as it waited. A couple of vultures circled overhead; they wouldn't be going hungry tonight.

The forest backing Camelot's army sent a formidable shadow over the ground, Caerleon's looking up from the brow of the hill. Hundreds of metres separated the two and yet soon they would be mixed and intertwined in a deadly dance of war.

"Knights of Camelot!" boomed Arthur Pendragon, crown prince of Camelot as he sat astride his big bay. He nudged his horse so that they were trotting up and down the ranks. "Remember what we fight for today! Remember _who_ we fight for today! Our family and our friends, our homes and our lives! These people would seek to from us what is ours and we must fight back. We. Must. Fight!

"Look at their army! They are half our number, yet come from a land twice the size of ours. Are they so cowardly so as not to fight when they are called for? Are they so cowardly as to turn and _run_ when they hold the advantages, when it is they that called for war? These are the men whom we shall face in battle. Look upon their faces and do not fear, but pity.

"Remember what we fight for and remember; this is a battle we _shall_ win!"

Arthur raised his sword high in the air, letting out a yell, easily riding his horse as it pranced to the side. Under his proud gaze, every single man before him rose there weapon and an almighty cheer resounded through the air.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Prince Merlin, Dragonlord, Lord of the Druids and Earthshaker rode in front of his own army and wished for his father.

The men in front of him were gloomy and fearful as they shifted uncomfortably. Their mismatched armour and wide array of weapons gave them the appearance of wild tribes of the north rather than protectors of Caerleon. Many of them had never even held a weapon before, as was seen by the awkward way which they carried them.

Merlin surveyed them once more and wondered how he was supposed to motivate them as they went to what would surely be their deaths. How could he instill hope when he had none left?

The odds were not favourable. They had half the army of Camelot and none of the skill. They were ill prepared and had hardly enough armour or weapons to go around. Next to Camelot's array of shiny armour, sharp weapons and freshly trained recruits, they were a poor sight.

They weren't ready for this.

Hell.

He wasn't ready for this.

So how to start his speech? How to motivate his men? The facts were dismal and would surely only worsen the already grim mood. The truth was worse.

Leaning forwards, he patted his black stallion, more for his own comfort than the horse's. He took a deep breath. It was now or never. The war wouldn't wait just for him.

"People of Caerleon!" he yelled, magnifying his voice with magic so that it rolled across the plains. Was that a good start? In front of him, his men fell quiet, turning to look at him with dead eyes that had seen the path ahead and knew it was the end.

"You stand before me like fear driven, crazed men. You stand there, quaking in your boots and wondering why you are here and why you ever came. Why? Because the sight of your enemy has sent you calling for your mothers!

"Who are you? Are you sorcerers and warlocks and people of Caerleon, or are you cowards who would turn and flee?

"You think not of your families who wait at home, depending on _you_ to save them. You think not of your country that you have sworn to protect with your live; it depends on _you_.

"You hold the weapon in your hands as if it is a stranger, as if you have never seen it before. You wonder if you will find it in yourself to take someone's life with it. Ask yourself this: will your enemy hesitate for you? Would they hesitate for your wife or your children? No. Every blow you strike is a blow against Camelot and a life saved. A child, or a woman saved. Maybe your wife, or your child.

"You are not defenceless! You do not rely on your weapons, but on magic, the very foundation of the earth and our lives. Did the Druids give up when they were hunted like animals? No! Did the dragons, when they were slaughtered like common beasts? No! Shall we? No!"

With a flash of gold eyes a fireball shot up in the air and exploded, leaving behind a projected overhead image of Caerleon.

"Think of your family. Your mothers and fathers, your wives and children. We fight for them. We _fight_ for _them_!"

A loose cheer broke from the men in front of him and Merlin allowed a smile to grace his own lips as he joined in. His speech seemed to have worked. After a few moments, he banished the image in the sky and turned to face Camelot's army.

This was it.

Now, truly, the world seemed to stop. Everything was silent. The wind fell. The vultures ceased circling. Men and animal alike froze.

Silence.

"_Charge!_"

The loose cry was echoed on both sides and the silence was broken by a thunder of hooves, the pounding of men and the shouts that rose from both sides. As Prince Arthur's men came out of the shadow the sun glinted on their armour, making them almost impossible to look at.

Merlin closed his eyes. His horse was straining powerfully beneath him, muscles bunching with every stride. The wall of sound around him was immense.

Two quick breaths amongst the chaos.

In.

Out.

He opened his eyes and he was there. He pulled out his sword in a single, fluid movement, and raised it high in the air.

"For Caerleon!"

The battle began.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

No one quite knew what originally caused the animosity between Uther and Balinor. Some said it was magic; others pointed out that the feud had begun far before the Great Purge. Still more suggested that they just didn't get on.

No matter how it started, it was only because of Lady Yrgraine that for many years peace was maintained between the two kingdoms. After her death, when the Great Purge began, Balinor did not retaliate for the slur against his kind, but instead welcomed those who had fled with open arms.

In the decade and a half afterwards, it more due to blind luck than any skills in negotiation that they remained at peace.

It was no surprise to anyone when war was declared.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

The armies met with a cascade of sound.

Steel screeched against steel, horses whinnied and screamed, the ground shook with pounding footsteps and men yelled.

The first line on both sides fell quickly, horses halted mid step by pikes and spears, men clutching their chests where arrows had pierced. Prince Merlin and Prince Arthur whirled in the thick of it, swords flashing, killing without hesitation. Both were still mounted upon their horses.

At first, neither side gained ground. The Knights of Camelot were trained well while the Caerleons were shielded with magic. They seemed evenly matched until little by little, Camelot began to press forward. By mercilessly attacking the sorcerers until their shields were broken, then unleashing their full fury, they slowly gained the advantage.

Arthur was in the thick of it. His horse fell to an axe and he climbed from it's dead body, moving to the nearest person and attacking with deadly precision. He appeared to be in some sort of trance, his face blank as he whirled and twirled in a dance of death. Few of those ho crossed his blade survived.

Leaning back, a sword clumsily aimed at his neck missed by inched. Feinting to the right, Arthur stabbed forwards, aiming straight for the heart. His strike as blocked in mid air by an invisible shield but he had been expecting it. Almost before his sword was stopped, he had brought back and was moving in an overhead strike. Once more it was blocked and he only just had time to duck as a ball of fire scorched over his had, singing some of his hair.

Lunging forwards he battered the sorcerer's sword away, striking every inch of sorcerer he could find until what seemed like an hour later, the shield was broken and the sorcerer lay dead.

Panting with exertion, he saw a sword rise above him in the corner of his vision and twisted around, sword meeting sword with a terrible screech.

And so it began again.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Merlin was surrounded by the enemy.

They might not know it, occupied as they were, but he was overly conscious of the fact. Desperation was in his movements as he fought with steel in one hand, magic in the other. His face was pulled into a frown and exhaustion seeped at the corners of his vision. The shields he was holding up took a lot more energy out of him than he had originally thought.

The man immediately in front of him was dispatched easily but someone from behind attacked him as he was mid swing. He grunted as energy was pulled out of him to maintain the shield. He gestured behind him with one hand, eyes glowing gold and knew from the answering scream that he had hit his target.

Someone appeared on his right and turned to face them, raising his word and beginning to duel.

Block, thrust, block, block, parry, feint, overhead, block.

Then, while he was drawing his sword back for another blow, he sent a wall of energy out, quickly killed his opponent and two other.

A grim, animalistic smile lit his face.

Then another three converged on him and he was fighting for his life once again. They attacked ferociously, together, and his shield failed for just a moment. He screamed as steel cut into flesh with a terrible tearing sound. The shield came back and he killed the one who had hurt him with a flick of his wrist and a flash of gold, biting his lip to keep from crying out.

Dispatching the other two quickly, he took a moment to glance around the battle field.

He was not surround by foe any more, but by friend, though this did little to console him. Even from just a brief glance he could tell the obvious.

They were losing.

His heart wrenched. His people were depending on victory; if it was not theirs, then he had not only failed himself but his army, his people and his kingdom.

Making sure head had no opponents around him, he let a roar build in throat and released it, the sound rising above all others in the battlefield. The words of the Old Religion flowed from his tongue easily.

The drain of energy he felt was huge, but it was worth it.

If all went well, he had secured a victory for Caerleon; and they were defeated, not only Caerleon, but all of Albion was doomed.

The dragons were coming.


	2. BitterSweet Revelations

**Name: Taken By The Storm**

**Chapter: Two**

**Summary: T****wo armies meet. Only one will be victorious. The consequences will affect the whole of Albion.**

**Good news! Another chapter up! I can hardly believe it... and it's quite long. Sorry anyone who is reading SIM, but I will try and post some more of that up tomorrow. I just had to write this.**

**I don't think it's quite as good as the last chapter, but I hope so. It **_**is**_**, however, longer! Whooo!**

**I have also thought a little bit about the plot and have a vague idea for the next couple of chapters. Also, I've been thinking about the time frame, and I've put Merlin aged seventeen, and Arthur twenty. **

**You know Arthur was born, then the Great Purge began? Well, Uther said it was the celebration of twenty years since the purge began in the first episode of the first series (I think) so that would make Arthur twenty then. My story and the first series begin in vaguely the same time. So uh, yeah.**

**I am really pleased at the interest this has got so far, so thank you everyone who reviewed. Big hugs, chocolate chip biscuits, and olympic sized swimming pools for you all! **

**Also, I think Merlin acts a bit OOC in this chapter, but hopefully I can explain that in the next few chapters. :)**

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The first time Arthur knew something was wrong, really wrong, was when he went deaf.

Just for a moment, he couldn't hear a thing. Then screams and metal-on-metal came back in full glory. His eyebrows shot into the air in confusion. Sorcery? Why would someone make him deaf?

A moment later, it happened again. This time he noticed a small rush of air, as well. Whirling around, he looked around for an attacker- something. No-one. Nothing. Literally, the battle had stopped.

Hang on. He took a good look. No, it hadn't stopped. Caerleons men were just re-grouping and reforming their lines, while his own were pointing at the sky and shouting. Then he went deaf again.

Following the pointing hands, he looked up at the sky. Swallowed hard. Clutched on to his sword tightly.

"To me! To me!" he yelled.

Knights and guards started flocking to him, starting to re-form their own lines. Vaguely, he noticed that Caerleons prince was shouting to his men. Probably something to motivate them; it was working. A glance up, a moment of deafness, and he turned back to his men.

"Pay no heed to these illusions!" he shouted. "The dragons are dead!"

"Look at the trickery they resort too; they see they are loosing and send images to scare you. Do not fall for their petty tricks - the dragons are dead!"

His men nodded half heartedly. Arthur could see, trickery or no, it would need more than a speech to motivate them. More than a speech, he didn't have.

Quietly, he asked Sir Leon about their losses.

"I don't know, sire," he replied. "It's hard to tell, but we think around five hundred men."

"Caerleon?"

"At an estimate, about two hundred, sire,"

His face pressed into a grim smile.

"Good."

Then, after a pause, "Have you every fought a dragon before? Do you know of a strategy to defeat them?"

"I'm sorry, my lord, but no."

Arthur stared at the sky, clutching his sword tightly.

"Wonderful. Just wonderful."

!

Merlin finished his speech, pleased to see the reaction from his men. No longer did they look so sad, so frightened. Hope sparked in their eyes and shone in their movements. What happened in the next half hour or so would decide the fate of Caerleon.

Their losses were hard; they had just over half of the people he had set out with the week before, but they had managed to do a fair bit of damage to Camelots army as well. A small satisfaction at least. Waving his second in command away, he tilted his head back, and let out a roar. One of the great beasts above turned it's head and stared at him with a large, beady eye. Quickly giving his orders, Merlin turned back to his people.

"Take one more look at you home," he cried, gesturing towards the image that hung over battlefield still. "This will be your last look until we march back through the front gates as victors. The dragons have come to our aid, so remember; in this battle, we are not alone."

Allowing a small pause as every man drunk in the sight of their home, he let his eyes flash gold and the image disappeared. Once again, he turned to face Camelots army. Automatically he searched for any signs of people crossing the no-mans land, but found no-one. The time for truces was over.

Merlin closed his eyes. He wondered if his father was here, would they have already won? Would they have lost? Would his father have been able to stop this war before it even started? Maybe so, maybe not. But Balinor wasn't here; and Merlin was. And he was in the middle of a great battle that every single citizen Caerleon depended on him to win. Life went on, and this was his lot.

Amen.

So be it.

!

It was the dragons who re-initiated the fight. They formed a line, then swept in low and fast, breathing fire, and using claws and tail to dismember those they could. Camelots army stood in disarray for a moment, then at someone's order, brought themselves back together. Raising their shields, they created a square block of steel, that prevented most from finding it's way through. As they did this, Merlin began his own charge, quickly taking the initiative.

And so it went; the dragons attacking, some from the air, some on the ground, using teeth, claws, tails and fire. The Caerleons struck with a will that they hadn't before, while Camelot's men defended as they had been trained. People fell on both sides, more so when the lines broke and friend and foe mingled.

It was about half way through this second phase, and it seemed like Caerleon would win. Merlin was in the thick of it, fighting with the best of them, and could see how discouraged Arthur's knights were. It bode well for Caerleon, but it gave him no pleasure to see the broken men.

Battles weren't as easy as they were made out to be; this was his first, but he had heard the stories of veterans. He had known it wasn't going to be a walk in the park, but this: this was something else entirely. It was a constant strain on the body. Always moving somehow, by ducking, dodging, blocking, stabbing, parrying. Add the strain of holding the magical shields up, and he was ready to drop on his feet. But dropping wasn't an option. Stop, just for a moment, and be killed. Run, and be killed. His left hand flew down to his belt, touching the single gem that adorned it, calling on the magic stored within. Worryingly, there wasn't much left - soon he would have to drop the shields.

What would happen when the shields fell? Battle wasn't like a duel; it wasn't one on one. Battle wasn't fair, there weren't any rules. You could be surrounded at any time, someone could take you down from behind while you were distracted, you could slip on one of the small streams of blood that had formed, or trip over a corpse and impale yourself on a weapon. If it wasn't for his magical protection, he would be dead one hundred times over.

Right now, he was standing on top of a small pile of corpses, trying to fight his way down. Three people were attacking him, two in front, one to the side. Two had swords, one a mace. Bringing his sword up to block the second knights weapon, for a moment each so close as to smell the others breath. Then, dancing back on his feet, ducking to avoid a mace strike he used magic to stop the first knights sword. Standing up quickly, he stabbed forwards with his sword, taking the third person by surprise. He died looking at the sword protruding from his chest, his mouth forming an 'O'.

With no time to watch as the knight fell to the ground, Merlin pulled his sword back out, swinging it round in an arc to meet the first knights neck. He had been aiming for the head, but one of the other sorcerers of Caerleon had engaged him in a fight, so he was distracted. An easy kill. This left the second knight who had his eye on the game. As Merlin pulled his blade back, the knight took the initiative and swung his sword in an arc towards his general chest area. However, Merlin wasn't the only one who had been fighting for almost half a day, and the sword lost momentum before the apex of the swing, and hit wildly of target, biting into his shoulder.

Merlin, shocked for a moment that his shield had failed, quickly pulled back, feinting with his sword, then letting loose a fireball with a flash of his eyes. The man fell screaming to the ground, where he started rolling frantically to try and put out the flames. Merlin stabbed him to put him out of his misery.

Another man rushed forwards to attack in his comrades place, but he too soon lay dead. Then someone caught the warlocks eye, and he turned, and saw Prince Arthur. Before he realised it, he was running over, killing those in his way.

He had a vendetta to fulfil with that man.

!

For Arthur, any delusions that the dragons weren't real were quickly smashed to bits. Time and time again, fire engulfed his men, claws crushed skulls, and teeth ripped of heads. When he got back to Camelot, he'd have to tell his father the news. But first he had to get there.

They were losing the battle.

It wasn't hard to see. From the beginning of the battle, where they had outnumbered the enemy three to one, the odds were probably now equal.

For the first time, Arthur thought of the possibility of failure, hell, even death. If he died out here today, what would Uther say, or do? What about Morgana? Would they cry? Would they be upset? Would they care?

All these thoughts crossed his mind as he fought. They distracted him, caused him injury, but he had to think them.. He had been trained to kill since birth, but that didn't mean he was invincible. There was a long, shallow cut on his thigh, a scrape on his chest, and one of his toes was broken. Still he kept on, still he thought. He had to. If he gave up hope, then so would his men. And that would mean certain death.

Block, parry, thrust, block, swing, overhead, thrust, thrust, block.

Never stopping.

The next time there was a break in the battle, he wiped sweat of his head with his sleeve, and turned round warily, looking for his next attacker. To begin with, he saw none, but then he noticed a figure running straight towards him. His tired mind tried to put a name to the face he recognised, and a few seconds later, it clicked.

Prince Merlin.

Then they were standing opposite each other, breathing in each others faces.

"You," the other prince said. "_You_."

Arthur unconsciously took a step back, raising his sword in defence.

"Me," he replied, dumbfounded.

"You killed my father." Merlin took a step forwards, his sword pointing threateningly at Arthurs chest.  
"I did?" Since when had he killed a king, as surely the princes father was?

"Balinor. Do you remember him? I believe you sat next to him at the celebration feast after the great dragon was defeated. I assume you talked to him,"

Now something was beginning to make sense. Balinor was the last dragon lord; Uther had called him to Camelot to stop the dragon from destroying Camelot, but had betrayed him at the last moment. Indeed, Arthur _had_ sat next to him, and talked to him, but it was not he who killed him.

"I have never killed except in defence, and I certainly did not kill Balinor."

"Really?" Merlin took another step forwards, stabbing forwards clumsily with the sword. Arthur batted it away easily, retaliating with a thrust of his own. The now familiar magical shield fell into place, stopping his sword with jarring impact.

"I arrested him after he disobeyed the laws of Camelot."

Merlin spat on the ground, and Arthur looked into his eyes, seeing the confliction of emotions there. A dragon roared loudly, something which sounded like glass shattered, and yet another scream filled the air.

"Disobeying laws, might I say, that he was pardoned for so he could help with the dragon. You and your father betrayed him in the worst possible way; my father was an honourable man, and by arresting him, you as good as murdered him."

The other princes voice was full of anger and grief and once again he struck forward with his sword. This time, Arthur blocked it, before spinning the point of his own blade in a tight circle, twisting the weapon out of the other mans hand. There was no time fore this. Stepping forwards, he grabbed Merlins shoulders, and pulling him forward kneed him in the groin. An animal like howl escaped the prince as he dropped to the ground, and Arthur sent another blow down, aiming for the kill.

Several things then happened simultaneously.

Merlin rolled to the side, the sword instead piercing his shoulder all the way through, pinning him to the ground.

An ear splitting roar cascaded through the air, even louder than painful.

People started running.

Arthur looked about, confused, then saw what was happening, and his own face transformed into one of horror and pride. Someone had just killed a dragon.

The unfortunate creature was coloured an emerald green, and look small compare to others of it's species. It had long, elegant wings, one of which was bent at a strange angle, blood pouring out of several large puncture wounds. It's tail was long and thin, finishing in a finely tapered point. It's face was made with fine lines and curves, strangely elegant. Despite being small for a dragon, it was still the size of several houses, and as it fell to the floor, sorcerers, knights, and guards ran for their lives. Only a few made it without being crushed to death.

There was a small pause as the world took in what had just happened. Then reality hit again.

Arthur pulled his sword out of the prince on the ground and ran over to where he saw Sir Leon, once again trying to regroup the knights. As he started organizing the men, he was vaguely aware of something or someone roaring. A few minutes later, an unearthly shriek cut through the air, and one of the dragons propelled itself off the ground with it's hind legs. It hovered for a moment, it's great wings flapping, staring at something. Then, in one quick movement, it turned around and flew off. One by one, every other dragon followed.

The battlefield was suddenly much clearer, and it put things into perspective. Caerleons men that were left, were relatively unharmed, but there were few of them left. His own men were obviously tired, but just like him, they kept on, never stopping, just how they had been trained. The most common injury was burns, and only a few of his men had actual sword injuries. Looking around the battlefield, he assessed the odds, calculating in his head. He felt a surge of adrenalin rush through him.

If they pressed forwards now, while the Caerleons were still confused, then there was a very realistic chance they could win. He muttered a plan to Leon, who nodded, smiling. Orders were given, and followed. Arthur led a group of men, Leon another, Bedivere had his own group, heck even Gwaine. Each group formed a point of a circle as they surrounded the enemy. By the time they realised, it was too late.

Arthur gave the order, and they started forwards. Those in their way were killed without second thought, until they reached the small group in the centre of the circle. It was a blood bath.

Not until the Caerleons were completely obliterated did Arthur wonder what had happened to the magical shields. Had the dragons been holding them, and when they flew away, did the shields drop? Or had a single person been holding them up, but had been killed?

Another question; why had the dragons left? If they had stayed, the Caerleons could have won. Why, why, why?

Shaking his head, he wiped his sword on a patch of clean ground, but didn't sheathe it. "Search for survivors!" he yelled. "If you find anyone of the enemy still alive, bind them, and bring them to me."

The knights spread out in a line, walking to once side of the field. Then they started a search pattern that would find even a squirrel trapped under a pile of body's.

Arthur made his way his way into the forest where a camp had been set up, with healers already hard at work. Assimilating with the others already there, he leant a hand, helping where he could. Status didn't count here, and if he tried to enforce it now, he would lose the loyalty and trust his men had in him.

He was attempting to light a fire when Sir Leon came to him with a body slung over his shoulder.

"He's alive, just, and I thought you'd want to see to him right away."

Gently, he set the body down on the ground. At first Arthur didn't recognise him. The mans face was covered in mud and blood, as were his clothes. The only way Arthur knew it wasn't a knight of Camelot was because he wasn't wearing any armour. Looking closer, he noticed how young the man looked. Indeed, hardly more than a boy. He turned away with a disgusted look. "They sent _him_ into battle? He's hardly more than a boy! What sort of men are these sorcerers?"

Leon coughed nervously. "Sire, if I may, don't you recognise him?"

"Should I?" Arthur asked, bending down to look once again. Now Leon mentioned it, there was something familiar. His eyes took in the sight of the bloody mess of a wound on the mans right shoulder. Something about that wound stirred a memory…

"It's Prince Merlin sire."

He looked up in shock. "How do you know?"

"There's a royal insignia on his sword, and tattooed on his palm. He wears the diamond ring of royalty."

Stepping back, Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "But he's so young," he muttered. Then, speaking to Leon, "take him to a healer. Make sure he is a top priority. My father will want to see him."

As the other prince was taken away, Arthur turned back to the fire, flicking the flint expertly. Was that man really Prince Merlin? If he though back to their fight, he could see the similarities, and he had stabbed the man in the shoulder, but had he really looked that young?

Just as he got the wood to light, he saw another knight coming towards him, this time leading a prisoner on a rope. As he approached, he recognised the man as Sir Lancelot. His face looked pale compared to his dark hair.  
"My lord," he said bowing. Arthur walked around to survey the prisoner. He was of medium height, of a slight build, and wore leather armour that didn't match and was too big. In his hand he held a sword, and sticking out of his chest was an arrow. He wore a helmet covering his face.

"Put him in the cage," Arthur said dismissively.

"Sire," Lancelot said. "You may wish to look closer." Arthur did, noting the defiant expression on the mans face.

"What is it I'm supposed to be looking at?" he asked in a scathing tone.

In answer, the knight leant forwards and took the helmet off the man. Arthur gasped. _Surely not… surely even they wouldn't go that low. Would they?_

In front of him, jaw sticking out, eyes staring at him boldly, stood a woman.

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**So, hope you liked it, and kept your expectations up. Please review!**

**Also, any guesses for who the woman is? (Phew, just realised I've written over five thousand words in two days – go me!)**


	3. Gravity

**AN: I am _so_ sorry for the long wait. For this and SIM. But for Set In Motion, I am doing some character development which is partly why I haven't posted. But I'm so sorry.**

**Also, I'm working on some GAT stuff for guides, which focus's on the millenium goals, some of which are about poverty etc. and I was a bit more interested in them after what happened in Japan. I'm still shocked about that actually.**

**I've had loads of positive reviews about this, and I'm so happy! Also, the great, awesome, Kitty O reviewed my one shot -whooo! Hehe.**

**So today, we find out who the mysterious woman is, and a bit of musing...**

**I always forget what I mean to write here. It's very annoying, and I think of it afterwards, and I make a memo for the next chapter, but then I forget again :( **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this as much as you have the other chapters, and please, please, review. I love to hear what you think**

"What I don't understand is why they allowed a woman to fight,"

They were sat around one the many fires in the camp, near the centre. An unusual group; Lancelot, Gwaine, Bedivere, Percival and Leon. Each of them held a tankard of mead.

"Are you sure she was the only woman? There wasn't anyone else?" Leon asked, leaning forwards, elbows on his knees.

"Positive. We checked every single corpse, we'd have seen if there was another." Lancelot said.

A thoughtful expression donned the older knights face. "Then, what if she wasn't actually meant to be there?" looking around the circle, he continued, taking a sip of his mead. "Think of the Lady Morgana! If she had a chance to come and fight, do you think she'd take it? Of course. In all the confusion of war, I doubt anyone would notice if an extra 'man' joined the lines."

There was a small silence as each person took this in. Gwaine half-turned, looking to the centre of the camp, where the prisoner was.

"It seems wrong, her being in that cage. It's bad enough she was in the battle at all, but to be a prisoner of war as well…"

The others turned to look as well. The cage wasn't that big a thing, only as long as a person, and as tall as a young child. It was made of metal strips, criss-crossing each other. The wind blew right through it, the rain fell straight through.

"She doesn't look that fazed," Lancelot commented, running a hand through his hair.

"Makes you wonder what they do to woman in Caerleon," Gwaine muttered darkly.

The girl - for, like the enemy prince, she was barely a woman - was sitting cross legged in the middle of the cage, staring straight ahead. If anyone presumed to look at her, she would glare at them with her dark eyes until they looked away. Lancelot met her gaze and held it for a few moments.

"Maybe she's just a tough woman," he said quietly.

Silence enveloped the group. Bedivere shifted quietly, armour clanking, Percival coughed. Tankards were refilled without a word. Each person in their own thoughts.

Lancelot's mind was on the battlefield. Hunting through the corpses, separating bodies to identify them and check if they were still alive. The worst part had been when they had reached where the dragon had fallen. It's huge mass had towered over them, and a few bodies could just be made out, crushed beneath a wing, or a head. There was an arm in it's mouth.

That was when they had moved on.

Gwaine was thinking how cold the girl-warrior must be. Her armour had been stripped away, leaving her in a thin cloth top that was too big, and ripped boys breeches. Her arms were bare, but if she was shivering, he couldn't see from here. He had to keep reminding himself that she was the enemy - a sorcerer at that. She was bad, corrupted, and evil.

But he couldn't make himself believe what his heart didn't.

Leon was reflecting on what the aftermath of the battle would be. Although Caerleon had only had a small army, what had once been one thousand five hundred proud soldiers in the army of Camelot, there were now only fifty. They would have to go back to Camelot to get reinforcements before they marched on Caerleons capital. Back at home, the dead would be buried, family's told the bad news, and a memorial service would be held. The great city would go into mourning for a while, then life would go back to normal.

Not so for the Caerleons. Once their capital was taken, there was no doubting Uther's wrath. There would be a massacre, some people would get upset, but it would be all right because all sorcerers were evil, and evil needed to defeated.

Didn't it?

Bedivere's mind was playing over and over the faces of the people he had killed. He was one of the newest knights, and this had been the first time he had killed - really killed. Blood seemed to stain his hands, and he had to clench them to stop them from trembling.

He drank more alcohol than any of the others. Including Gwaine.

Percival was paying his respect to the dead. He was a quiet man, and everything he said was meaningful. In his head was a turmoil of thoughts, each ordered and categorized. He did not try to wash the deaths off his hands, nor did he relish them. They were, and would be, and could not be forgotten or forgiven.

He sent silent thanks up to the heavens for being spared, and still being alive.

Their musings were cut short by a scream, followed by the tinkling of glass breaking.

Immediately, each of them was standing up, sword drawn and ready. A cry for help came from one of the nearest healing tents, and, without hesitation, Lancelot started running, leading the way. At the same time, two woman ran out of the tent, screaming. One had fair hair, the other a flame red. Their cotton dresses were stained with blood.

"What is it?" Lancelot asked. The fair-haired woman pointed a shaking hand at the tent, while the other said nothing. Striding forwards, he ducked under the door flap, and into the tent. There, he stopped, his eyes taking in the sight.

The tent was fairly empty. A single bed in the centre of the room, where a young man lay, tossing and turning. There were a couple of shelves, filled with potions and lotions. Two wooden chairs sat either side of the bed. But that wasn't what made him stop in his tracks. No, that was the objects floating in the air. Glass bottles filled with strange liquids, herbs, even a blanket, all hovering, looking just as if they belonged there.

"My god," Gwaine whispered behind him.

The knights were pushed out of the way as someone barged past. Prince Arthur. There was silence for a moment, as their prince took in the sight. Then the man on the bed moaned, and all eyes snapped to him. He was obviously the sorcerer, but how could he make objects float while he was unconscious?

"Merlin," the prince said. Then, "Lancelot, get his legs."

Together, the two men made their way towards the enemy prince, ducking between the objects, trying not to hit anything. Arthur took the mans arms, Lancelot his legs, and they lifted him up. Immediately, he started struggling profusely, as if he were awake.

"Holy mother!" Arthur yelled as the other princes teeth sunk into his arm. Abruptly, all the objects in the air fell to the earth. Lancelot cursed as glass cut into his head, and something wet trickled down his back. The other knights in the ten quickly backed out, leaving a clear path.

As soon as they were outside, Camelot's prince dropped Merlin onto the floor, with a thud. He then started nursing his arm, while Lancelot set the prisoners feet down on the floor gently. The fair haired healer came forward to look at Arthur's arm, while the other started bandaging Lancelot's head.

"What," Arthur said. "the hell happened in there?"

His healer moved back inside the tent to fetch a bandage before replying. "He was unconscious. Hadn't stirred once since your knights brought him in, and I was bandaging his shoulder, when he turned funny all of a sudden. Went as pale as a sheet, and started tossing and turning. At one point, he sat up, opened his eyes, and, my lord, they changed colour. They changed colour, and as they faded back to blue, everything just," she shrugged. "Started floating."

Arthur looked over at the second healer, who nodded to confirm the story. He seemed to think for a moment, before turning to Leon.

"Have you ever heard of this before?" he asked. The older knight shook his head.

"The Lady Nimueh, my lord," he said. "Her eyes used to change colour, but never without a spell."

The prince turned to the first healer, who had just finished bandaging his arm.

"Have you finished with him?" he asked.

This time, the red hed answered. "We've done what's necessary, but to bring him back to full health, we'd need a little longer."

"Good. You two," he said, looking at Percival and Bedivere, "take him to the cage,"

Obediently, the two knights pricked the man up, and started shuffling over to the cage. "Put the chains on him!" Arthur called. "We don't want him causing any more trouble."

The prince strode over, pulling a key on a chain out from under his armour. He leant forwards and inserted it into the lock, after gesturing for Gwaine and Leon to restrain the girl inside at the other end. This they did, both gentler than they would normally have been. To her credit, the girl didn't do anything. She allowed herself to be held, not overly giving in to them, nor struggling. She didn't look behind her to see who was joining her in the cage, nor at the knights restraining her, just straight ahead into the distance.

Percival slid the enemy prince into the cage, closing the chains that were attached to a cross piece on the roof of the cage around his wrists. As the cold metal clicked shut, the young prince seemed to stir a little.

Arthur closed the cage door, locking it shut, and tucking the key back into his armour. Gwaine and Leon let go of the girl, but she didn't move until they stepped back a couple of paces. The Caerleon prince moaned, raising his head a little bit.

The girl finally turned, then froze in shock. Her lips silently mouthed some words, before she crawled forwards. For the first time, her face showed emotion.

The prisoner prince opened his eyes, dragging himself into a sitting position. His eyes wandered about, before focusing on the girl. He blinked a couple of times, as if to clear his eyes, then his own eyes widened.

"Freya!" he cried.

* * *

**Someone guessed that the 'mysterious woman' was Gwen, and that was such a good idea, I almost changed who it was. Whoever it was who guessed Freya – well done!**

**Please review – your opinion matters!**


	4. Man, Woman, Prat

**Name: Taken By The Storm**

**Chapter: Four**

**Summary: Two armies meet. Only one will be victorious. The consequences will affect the whole of Albion.**

**AN:** I. Just. Wrote. Romance. *shifty eyes* I have never done that before. My friends will tell you that I'm terrible, because in a film, if someone kisses someone, I look away and am like 'ewww' still. So, uh, yeah. :/

A bit happening in this scene. A little attempt at humour, but that's mainly going to be in the next chapter (I had to split this one into two).

And guess what? Emachinecat reviewed! I was literally bouncing on my chair. And then I realised that 11Lethal11 who has reviews is _the_ 11Lethal11, whose stories I am curretly reading. That had me literally jumping up and down. It also inspired me, because I thought, if writers that good are reading this, then it can't be _that_ bad!

So, thank you, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU, to everyone who has alerted/favourited/reviewed!

Please read and review!

A loud 'pop' echoed from one of the many fires, only helping the mood. "Wet wood," someone muttered.

Inside the cage, man and woman stared at each other. 'Freya' was kneeling, leaning forwards slightly, the baggy top she was wearing hanging forwards. Her dark hair fell over her face, almost as if trying to hide it. Merlin sat against one of the walls of the cage, his arms held up above his head by the chains, his face going red.

"What are you doing here?" he yelled suddenly.

Freya recoiled in shock. "Fighting for Caerleon," she said.

"You're a woman!" Merlin shouted. "You're not meant to fight," his face softened slightly. "How can _I _fight, if I know you are out there somewhere, unprotected?"

"Well, I'm sitting right next to you."

"But you weren't, and you're still unprotected."

"Yes, but it's my decision. No, don't tell me, I don't want to know. Do you think it's any easier for me, when I know you're going to battle? Merlin, you're a prince! Do you even have an idea of what they could do to you?"

Merlin opened his mouth, but was cut off yet again. "What gives men anymore right to fight than woman? It's still our country! We can still fight! Do you know how much it hurts?"

Finally, Freya sat back on her haunches, brushing her hair out of her face. Merlin regarded her carefully. "Do you remember when we met?" he asked "You were in a cage like this. When I saw you there, you were chained like an animal. You were half dead. I couldn't leave you there,"

Freya's lips pressed into a line. "I know what happened," she said.

"I let you out. I led you to somewhere you would be safe. I fed you, got you some new clothes. When the bounty hunter came to court, looking for you, I kept my mouth shut. Over those few days, I fell for you. That was when our relationship started; in a cave underneath the city.

"And look at us now. Back to the beginning, In a cage, chained. But this time, there won't be someone to let you out. Do you know how that feels? When I came out to fight, it was alright, because I knew you were safe. We had the dragons. We were able to win.

"But we didn't. I failed my men, my people. But still I held onto the fact that I had kept you safe." Merlin turned his head, bitterly. "But it looks like I failed at that too."

"Don't say that!" Freya said, lifting a hand to cup his face in her hand. "Never blame yourself. It's not your fault any of this happened, it's not your guilt to pay."

Merlin stared straight into her eyes. "I'm prince and heir to Caerleon. It's my job to take the blame."

"And you know that's not true," Freya breathed.

"Do I?"

"Yes," and she leant forwards, pressing her lips to his. The knights watching all turned away, to give them privacy, apart from Arthur. He was watching the pair with cold, calculating eyes.

When they broke apart, Merlin leant his head back against the metal behind his head. "I don't know what to do," he said. He tilted his head. "I don't think there is anything I _can_ do,"

Freya shuffled over, sitting next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. "There is _always_ something you can do." she said.

Suddenly, Merlin shifted, and looked down in concern. "It's night," he said. "Have you got some of your potion?"

Freya nodded. "A little, but not enough." she bit her lip. "Never enough."

"Enough for a few nights?"

Another nod. Merlin sighed in relief, shifting closer to her. His expression was still concerned, but it had relaxed a little. At least he wouldn't have to worry about a murderous beast locked in the same cage as him.

Those watching exchanged mystified looks.

"They're going to torture you," he said, quietly. "Hurt you."

"They'll do the same to you."

"They might use me to hurt you, or the other way round."

Silence.

"Promise me, Freya, that if they try to use me to get you to tell them secrets, you will put Caerleon first."

Freya shook her head. "That's something I can't do," she whispered.

Merlin looked her straight in they eyes, until she looked away. "You have to. Lives are at risk if you don't."

"And yours will be if I do,"

Merlin moaned. "Freya, I don't have time for this."

The girl closed her eyes, and a tiny drop of moisture leaked. "Please," she said. "I can't do it."

"Okay then." Merlin tried a different tack, closing his own eyes. "I wonder how Hunith is. I wonder if they know yet. Hopefully Will did as he was told-"

"Fine." Freya snapped. "I promise, but only if you do."

Merlin hesitated for a moment, bowing his head. "I promise," he said hollowly.

Freya shifted closer to him, trying to get comfortable. Merlin drew his knees up, sinking further down. He didn't bother opening his eyes, afraid that if he did, then the tears he just about managing to keep at bay, would finally fall.

"You have to have hope."

Freya's voice broke the silence. "When I was trapped in that cage, bound by the bounty hunter, I thought no-one would come. Long before you came, I gave up. I was sure I was going to die; maybe even in the cage, cold, alone, and hungry. But someone came. _You_ came.

"You have to remember that; there's always hope."

The moment was ruined when Arthur turned on his heel, his shoes squeaking slightly on the wet grass. "Get some sleep," he called to his men. "It'll be a long day tomorrow."

The group of knights, standing where they had congregated as the two prisoners had been re-united, slowly made their way back to their tents.

"Well, that was a surprise," Gwaine said brightly.

"Just a little," Leon said, sounding slightly dazed.

The other three stayed silent.

When they got to where they had to go there separate ways, they mumbled a few goodnights, Gwaine even adding a cheeky 'Sweet dreams,'. As they parted, none of them could help thinking about the doomed couple in the cage.

!

The sun was rising. Rosy clouds tinged the horizon, and people were just starting to get up.

Merlin still sat where he had been the night before - not like he had much choice - Freya still resting with her head on his shoulder. He had hardly slept at all, the position he was tied in not helping much. Neither was the thought of what would happen to Freya when they arrived in Camelot.

As the thought crossed his mind, the girl stirred slightly, before opening her eyes groggily. "Merlin?" she whispered, before sitting up sharply. "Merlin?" she cried.

"Ssh," Merlin hushed. "I'm here,"

"What happened?" she asked, then her expression her cleared, as she obviously remembered the events of the day before, and she lapsed into silence, leaning against Merlin once again. Her eyes took in everything.

"They're not packing up the camp," she said finally.

Merlin shook his head. "No, first they'll see if they can salvage any of the spoils. Any valuable armour, weapons - anything. They'll probably head up the hill, to find our camp and take all our supplies from there as well."

"Oh,"

The sun rose higher, and more men appeared. Breakfast was served fairly early, the delicious smells wafting through the air to the cage, where Merlin and Freya sat, patiently waiting to see if they would get any.

Merlin tried to make conversation. "So, how did you like being a man?" he asked.

"Well," Freya replied with a slight smile. "I don't think it's all it's cracked up to be."

Merlin couldn't help the smile which appeared on his own lips. "You don't think?"

"No. I mean, the stinky clothes, all the walking, the weapons and the armour, and all the things we had to carry… not to mention the toilet facility's. And the language."

Merlin laughed softly. "So, what do you prefer? Being a man or woman?"

"You have to ask?" she said, giving him a sideways glance. "Man, of course."

This time, Merlin's laughter was louder, and Freya joined him. They got several strange looks from passing knights.

"Seriously though, are you all right?" he asked, with a concerned expression.

Freya smiled softly. "Okay, I guess," she said. Silent for a moment, before she continued. "I just don't understand why someone would want this. You hear of far away lands, where all they do is train for war. They enjoy it. The bards tales, they all tell of great deeds done in battle, told in heroic lights. But the reality is that it's terrible. There is nothing great, noble, or heroic in war. It's just pointless killing because of a feud between people with power-"

She stopped suddenly, putting a hand over her mouth. "Oh, I didn't mean-"

Merlin cut her off. "I know what you mean. I agree with you. This war could have been avoided but for Uther's heart of stone," he hesitated. "Or, perhaps, my own skills of negotiation."

"Uther is a tyrant who does not deserve to live on this world."

Merlin looked at her, his face sad. "Please don't say that, Freya," he said.

"But it's true,"

"The Freya I know always thinks the best of everyone."

The girl turned her face down. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's just after what I saw yesterday… I don't think I will ever be able to think good of him again."

Merlin desperately wanted to hold her close, to comfort her, but was held back - literally - by the chains. Seeming to understand his need, Freya shifted closer still, putting her arms round him and burying her face in his chest.

"I'm sorry," her voice was muffled, and Merlin pressed his forehead to the top of her head.

"For what?" he asked.

"For coming. I should have stayed at home, like you said,"

"Yes," he agreed. "You should have. But you're here now, and-" he swallowed. "And if I'm honest, I would rather have you here than anyone else."

"Do you mean that?" Freya asked, looking up at him, her eyes bright with moisture.

"Always." he looked up at the sky, where the moon was just about still visible. He guessed that they weren't getting any breakfast. Food, _or_ water. He licked his lips - he would die for some water right now, and he suspected that Freya would as well, but he was powerless to do anything. If he asked, his request would no doubt be denied, and he couldn't 'magic' any, what with the anti-magic chains and cage.

He watched as Prince Arthur gathered his men to him, assigning them with certain jobs. The fifty odd men split into four groups, and set off in their separate ways. He noticed with a wry smile that most of them looked like they had slept in their armour.

Only Arthur and the healers stayed behind, and the crown prince walked purposely towards the cage. His expression was grim. Freya raised her head as she felt Merlin shift, then sat up as she saw who was coming.

"Prince Merlin," Camelot's prince greeted. He ignored Freya completely, much to her disgust.

Merlin jumped in before either could open their mouths. "I promise to co-operate completely, if you let Freya go."

Arthur almost took a step back, his eyebrows raised. _The prince cared about the girl, that much? _He smirked slightly.

"I don't think you understand the situation properly," he said, in a cool, smooth voice. "You are _my_ prisoner, along with the girl. You aren't in a position to negotiate."

Merlin's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything.

"That's better," Arthur congratulated, the smirk growing bigger. Merlin instantly decided to hate him for the rest of his life. "I came to tell you exactly what your position is,"

Tilting his head, Merlin couldn't help the retort, "I thought you just told us, _sire_,"

Arthur's face was a picture. It was obvious not many people answered back to him. "Yes, _Mer_lin," he said finally. "I was going to tell you in more detail. Of course, if you're brain can't handle it…"

This time, it was Merlin who smirked. "Great reply,"

The crown princes skin was going an extremely interesting shade of red. Abruptly, he unsheathed his sword, and poked it through the cage, pointing it directly at Merlin.

"Shut. Up." he hissed. "You are going to get one meal, and one drink a day, as long as you behave. Any attempts of escape, or trouble at all, and I will make life _very_ uncomfortable for you,"

"You mean you're not going to already? With the whole, torturing thing?"

"Merlin-" Freya whispered, but was cut of by Arthur.

"I _said,_ shut up." Camelot's prince said. Merlin opened his mouth to say something else, but found a sword between his teeth. He froze.

"Much better," Arthur said. "Keep quiet, and I won't accidentally slip." once he was sure that Merlin wasn't going to try anything, he pulled back and sheathed his sword.

"Now, as I was saying, do not try anything. There are plenty of ways to hurt people without seriously harming them," the smirk had appeared again. "Today, we'll be staying here. Tomorrow, we'll set off for Camelot. We should arrive there in about a week. Before you try to escape, both the cage, and the chains, were made by very powerful sorcerers, a long time ago, before the purge, to disable magic. If, miraculously, you are somehow able to use your powers, I doubt the consequences will be very pleasant."

Merlin directed the worst glare he could manage at the prince. "Really?" he couldn't help saying. Freya placed a restraining hand on his arm, and he relaxed a little at her touch.

"I wouldn't try my patience," Arthur hissed, before turning and stalking away, with as much dignity as he could.

The couple in the cage didn't move.

Eventually, Merlin spoke. "What a prat."

* * *

I'm not sure if this is that good, or if it was ready to be posted, but I hardly ever edit, so...

I hope I met your expectations... there will be more of Arthur, Gwaine, Lancelot, Percival, Bedivere, and Leon in the next chapter.

Please review – your opinion matters!


	5. Good, Evil

**Name: Taken By The Storm**

**Chapter: Five**

**Summary: Two armies meet. Only one will be victorious. The consequences will affect the whole of Albion.**

**AN: **I'm not looking. Seriously, I'm not going to look. I mean it can't have been that long, right? (Looks) (Gulps) Okay, maybe it was that long. I, uh, have an excu- reason! I mean reason!

I got kidnapped, and taken all the way to antarctica. Then I escaped, but I had to find the way back, with no money.

Not buying it? Why not? I mean, it's so totally believable!

So yeah, I had a massive writer's block, but then it broke last night – late last night. Unfortunately, I fell asleep while writing it, then finished it this morning. I actually didn't let myself out of bed 'till I finished it. Dedicated, huh? (Coughs) Shush!

If you're reading this, or this chapter at all, then thank you. I know it's been a long time, and I'm really sorry. But um, there might be some bad news. Like, I'm going away on tuesday and not coming back till the end of the month. Yeah. I probably won't be able to write, and most of the time won't have an internet connection.

Now I'll shut up before this AN becomes even more beastly than it already is.

Please remember: reviews equals love!

* * *

Gwaine picked his way across the battlefield, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other clutching a small bottle that smelled suspiciously like alcohol. Lancelot was on his left, about five or six others on his right. Idly, Gwaine pursed his lips to start whistling, but a glare from an unknown knight quickly shut him up.

Lancelot looked at him, a strange look on his face. "Why are you so happy?" he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

"Why shouldn't I be?" Gwaine asked, his voice light and almost care-free. "The suns shining, the battle is over and won, I'm not dead, and we'll be going home tomorrow!"

Put that way, Lancelot couldn't help but agree."I guess," he said grudgingly. He was given a hearty slap on his back for his troubles.

"Always look on the bright side of life!" Gwaine said brightly. "Doesn't seem so bad that way." And with that, the rogue knight took a large sip of the liquid in the bottle he held. He licked his lips loudly. "Now _that_," he exclaimed. "_Has_ to be the best thing about life!"

Lancelot smiled amusedly. "You do know Arthur doesn't allow drinking on duty?"

"Nonsense!" Gwaine said. "What about last night?"

"That was an exception; we just won a battle!"

"Hmm?" Gwaine said, cupping a hand to his ear. "Can't quite hear you. Besides, what Arthur doesn't know won't hurt him." He leaned towards Lancelot conspiratorially. "And what he does can annoy the hell out of him."

Lancelot shook his head, smiling slightly. "I still think you went a bit overboard this morning. Princess? Really?"

"Think about it! He's waited on hand and foot, been pampered since he was a baby. He's spoilt and whines a lot, and he's not even given himself a job to do."

"Arthur can be..." Lancelot struggled to find the right words.

"A prat?"

"Maybe. But he's there when it matters."

The two fell into a companionable silence as they walked towards the brow of the hill.

"My father was in the Caerleon army."

Lancelot stopped in horror. "He- you mean we-?"

Gwaine looked up quickly. "No." He said quietly. "It was a while ago. He died in the last war."

"God, I'm sorry."

"It's alright. It's just," the alcoholic-obsessed knight looked up at the sky. "He always said about how Balinor was a great king; a king to be remembered. He said that Caerleon was one of the greatest and fairest kingdom in all of Albion, and that the king's son was set to follow in his footsteps."

"Aye." Lancelot looked at the ground. "I've heard the same."

"And yet here we are, fighting to bring about it's downfall. The world works in strange ways, eh?"

"Yes. I wouldn't want to be in Prince Merlin's shoes right now." Lancelot smiled wryly.

"No," Gwaine agreed. "Or the girls."

They reached the top of the hill and saw what had been the enemy army's camp spread out below them. Tents, smoldering fires, lives left behind. Ghosts of the past.

"Yes. The world works in strange ways."

!

Leon and Percival had been given the task of burying the dead with a handful of other knights. The task was grim; separating bodies that in life would have stayed at least an arm lengths away, yet in death were held together by blood, gravity, or weapons.

Two of the men were digging a large pit, two of the others building a pyre. The rest of them - all three of them - were putting the bodies into two piles. A pile for the men of Caerleon, and a pile for the men of Camelot. One pile would be burned, the other taken into the ground.

They worked in silence, trying hard to get on with the job and not fall to the floor, crying, or throwing up.

Leon bent down, separating two bodies that were held together by a pike. Only their red capes identified them as knights of Camelot.

They came apart with a squelching sound, blood squirting into his face and he gagged, bile rising in his throat.

He paused, swallowing it down and grimacing. A hand on his shoulder made him jump.

Percival was standing next to him, his silent presence strangely comforting. Leon smiled - or tried to - up at the knight. It came out more like a grimace.

They stood there for a moment, just doing nothing, Leon staring straight ahead into the distance. Then, when he was ready, he turned to the knight.

"Thanks," he muttered.

Percival nodded and picked up one of the body's and walked towards one of the piles. Leon froze for a moment, then started into movement, feeling ashamed that he had been shown up by the new knight.

But then again, Percival might be new to being a knight, but he didn't look like he was new to _this_.

Once again, Leon found himself wondering about the knight's past, and what had brought him to Camelot - along with the two others, Gwaine and Lancelot. The coincidence of it all, arriving just before war broke out between the two countries.

And not for the first time, he found himself wondering who these knights actually were and what had brought them together.

Quickly, he started moving again. After all, the had only one day and a whole battlefield.

!

Bedivere had decided roughly about four hours ago that he would never drink again.

The liquor sat uncomfortably in his stomach, and his head pounded as if it were a stubborn piece of metal that a blacksmith were trying to hammer into place.

Feeling the familiar bile in the back of his throat, he staggered forwards and retched behind a tree before sinking to the ground.

By the gods, how did Gwaine manage it?

"You alright?"

Bedivere looked up sharply, but couldn't see anyone. While Arthur had assigned some of the knights - like him - watch duty, it wasn't really needed and they didn't expect any attacks, thus not many people being left in the camp. Then his eyes settled of the cage with the two prisoners inside and saw the man - Prince Merlin, he reminded himself - staring at him.

The captives had been the greatest gossip of the camp, but Bedivere had been slightly detached from it all, instead trying to prove himself to Prince Arthur and take his mind of the lives he had ended.

He was still young enough to believe in the innocence of black and white, good and evil.

Prince Merlin, he had been told, was evil.

But here he was, asking if he was alright.

"F-fine," he stuttered, turning away.

"Really?" The foreign prince sounded slightly amused, but concerned. The girl shifted to face him too, looking at him through long eyelashes.

"I'm sorry?"

"He said that you don't look 'fine'," the girl said, making him jump slightly. He wasn't expecting her to join the conversation.

"In fact," the prince said, squinting through the bars, "I'd say you're experiencing the after effects of a heavy night's drinking."

Bedivere felt the heat rise in his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I can't speak to you."

"Really?" Prince Merlin said again, sounding disappointed. "I've been stuck in this cage for _hours,_ with no one to talk to. Surely a little conversation won't hurt?"

"Oi, what about me?" the girl said indignantly, nudging him.

"You don't count," the Prince said, smiling at her. "So, what do you say? A little conversation?"

Bedivere looked from one to the other, feeling strangely trapped. It _was_ lonely being on guard duty - _but that didn't matter when his head pounded so hard he felt it was being knocked of his shoulders _- and Prince Arthur hadn't told them _not _to speak to the prisoners - _he just expected them not to_ - so, maybe he could?

He shifted round the tree slightly so that he could see the prisoners more clearly. But now that he had agreed to talk to them, he couldn't think of anything to say.

"So," Prince Merlin said, obviously seeing his hesitation. "You lived in Camelot all your life?"

"Yes," Bedivere said. "My mother and father are some of the lesser lords and lady's, but they still have a place in the castle." He paused. "Sire."

"Merlin," the prince said quickly. "Just call me Merlin - and this is Freya."

Bedivere nodded and tried not to let his confusion show. "Yes, s- Merlin." He nodded at the girl. "Freya."

"Good," Merlin smiled. "Now that we've got that out of the way." He leaned forwards. "So, do you have anyone… special, back home?"

Freya gasped. "Merlin!" she said, slapping him on the arm.

Bedivere blushed, and that was answer enough.

"What's her name?" Merlin asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Eibhlynn."

"Evelyn?"

"No, Merlin, he said _Eibhlynn._" Freya said.

"Whatever."

Bedivere looked at the two of them and felt he wasn't really a part of the conversation, but more of a tag along. Something in the way the two of them interacted made him feel they didn't didn't need anyone else but each other.

"So," Merlin started again. "When are you gonna… y'know? Ask the question?"

Bedivere blushed again. He muttered something, but neither Freya or Merlin heard and they looked at him questioningly.

"As soon as I get home," he said again.

"Congratulations!" Merlin said, a goofy smile lighting up his face.

"I've not asked her yet," he muttered.

Suddenly, Merlins whole manner changed, and as he leaned forwards he looked older, wiser.

"Why?" he asked softly. "Why ask her now?"

Bedivere looked to the floor and drew a hand across his face to clear away all the leftover bile. "The war..." he said. "It's taught me that some things aren't going to stay the same forever, that maybe it's to act now, before it's gone. To live in the now."

Merlin's eyes softened in sympathy, and Bedivere could see a much older man sitting in his place, wisened and battered by the years, but still struggling on.

Then the foreign prince sat up and the vision had gone.

Twisting round, he looked to see what had brought about the change in Merlin and saw none other than Prince Arthur. He was storming towards the prisoners cage, holding some big sort of pot in his hands. Bedivere shuffled hurriedly away, and the prince stopped right in front of the cage.

"Bear hit you over the head?" Merlin asked.

Arthur scowled at him. "What have we said about trying to funny?" he asked, one hand drifting to the hilt of his sword.

"I shouldn't?"

Arthur didn't deign to answer. Instead, he held up the pot - or rather, both of them. They were balanced one on top of the other, the bottom one being circular, with two vertical handles on the side, with a rectangular hole on the front. The second pot, the one on top, was the same apart from having a spout instead of a hole. They looked to be made out of clay, and were painted intricately around the outside with words and images.

"What's this?" he asked.

Merlin stared straight at him. "It's a potion pot. You mix water, some animal blood and some special herbs before doing a special dancing and saying the spell."

"Really?"

"No. It's a cooking pot."

Arthur's face contorted into a peculiar mix of glowering, scowling and glaring. Merlin smiled blindingly up at him.

"Right." Arthur said flatly. "Why's it painted then? My men have found hundreds, thousands, of these at your camp, and none of them have the same pattern."

Merlin's face softened. "It's a life story." He said. "A cooking pot, it's a household item, but if you have to leave somewhere - maybe in a hurry, maybe not - or if you travel, what are you most likely to take with you?"

"A cooking pot," Freya supplied, and Arthur looked surprised that she dared to open her mouth.

"It changes from person to person, but one family can have a pot, or each person can have a pot, or both."

"And this is important, how?" Arthur said dryly.

Merlin didn't rise to the bait. "Each person - or family, as I said - paints their own pot. It's a story, a chronicling of their life. It represents everything they believe in, or are, and everything that's made them that way. Usually, their cooking pot is buried with them." Merlin looked pointedly at Arthur.

"A cooking pot?" Arthur snorted. "Surely you could have chosen something a little less… common?"

Merlin tried to leap forwards, momentarily forgetting about the chains. As he was yanked back painfully, the heat rose to his cheeks. "Unlike you," he spat, "some people care for more than money, glory, and pointy sticks."

In one fluid movement, Arthur drew his sword, the pot falling to the floor.

"My father would like you unharmed," Arthur hissed. "But it's a long journey back to Camelot, and injuries have plenty of time to heal."

But all Merlin saw was the clay shattering on impact as it hit the ground. "Eli," he whispered.

"What?" Arthur said, thrown momentarily.

"That pot belonged to Eli, the blacksmith."

"How can you tell?" Arthur asked, immediately suspicious. "And why was a blacksmith with you?"

"I'd recognise that dragon wing anywhere," Merlin snorted.

Arthur looked down at the pieces on the floor, but couldn't see what the foreign prince was referring to.

"And why do you think a blacksmith was with us?" Merlin continued. "Unlike you in Camelot, my people are not fanatical about fighting and killing. We only have a small garrison, and my people had a choice of whether to come and fight a battle they had never been trained for, or to stay in Caerleon and try and prepare themselves as best they could. We are a _peaceful_ country, we don't _want _war."

Arthur looked at him for a moment, then sheathed his sword. "Don't try your lies on me," he said. "They won't work." He turned to walk off, then called back over his shoulder, "Bedivere, get the prisoners some food. Clean up while you're at it - you smell worse than _them_."

Bedivere stood up and straightened his tunic and mail. "Sorry," he mouthed to the prisoners before running of to get some food.

But as he ran, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was _wrong_. He had spoken to the prisoners, and they had seemed as nice as the next person - nicer, in fact. And yet they were doomed to torture and a long and painful death.

Suddenly, Bedivere found himself liking the foreign prince more and more, and his own less and less.


	6. An End Of Sorts

**Name: Taken By The Storm**

**Chapter: Six**

**Summary: Two armies meet. Only one will be victorious. The consequence will effect the whole of albion.**

**An: **Another update! So soon! (Ahem. Possible about a month.) I was away! I was away! You can put the pitchforks and rotten tomatoes and- who brought a potato? Who?

So here you go, I hope you still enjoy it. The next chapter will change the setting a bit.

Reviews equals love!

* * *

That night, the sky was red from the flames of the pyre. Every single survivor from the battle turned up to watch their kin be buried. Someone even towed Merlin and Freya's cage to the site to watch.

Arthur stood between the pit and the pyre, looking strangely sinister in the twilight. "Tonight we are here to bury those who died in the battle for Camelot. They came to our country's aid and fought bravely. Listen well and remember their names, for without them, we would not be here today."

Heads bowed, an owl hooted.

"Sir Olaf of Ascetir."

A scoop of dirt was thrown into the pit. The start of the burying process.

"Sir Alan of Dolau."

Another.

"Sir Owain of Ashkar."

It would be a long night.

"Sir Gorlois of Mora."

And hell, if he had to be the one to break the news to Morgana… he would cry.

!

The list went on and on, well into the night. Thousands of people had died, and Arthur insisted on mentioning every one. Some people they couldn't identify, others they didn't know their names.

He still mentioned them.

Somehow, each name was a blow to himself; another one of his failures. Maybe, if he had trained them better, they would have survived. Maybe, if he had directed the battle better, they would have survived. He let his mind drift away, reading the names from the long scroll in his hand, but in actuality far away; remembering that night, just a month ago.

!

"_No, father!"_

_"No Arthur. You have to learn that as a prince, one day to be king, every action must have a consequence."_

_Father and son faced each other from opposite sides of the throne room, alone but for a mouse that took one look at the two and scurried away. The king laid stress on every word, leaning forwards in his throne angrily. _

_"But father, I implore you. I don't- I'm not-"_

_Uther looked his son eye to eye. "You're not what?"_

_"I'm not ready!" Arthur burst out._

_"No, you're not," Uther said. "Which is why you must learn to be."_

_"But these are men's lives we're talking about. Surely as a king you must respect their wishes and want to keep them alive! A king without subjects is no king at all. Send someone who knows what they are doing!"_

_"Make mistakes now, and only a few will suffer. If you wait until you are king, the whole kingdom will suffer. No, Arthur, I have made up my mind - you will start preparations tomorrow, and leave before the new moon."_

_"Sire!" Arthur stepped back in shock. "That's only two weeks."_

_"And be glad it's that." Uther stood up and walked to one of the windows, only limping slightly. Arthur watched with concerned eyes; his father had been injured by a monster of a boar on a boar hunt just the week before last. Gaius had said it should clear up without any problems if rested enough. "The Caerleons are a race riddled with magic..." Uther began. "Their minds and hearts have been poisoned. They no longer wish for peace as they used to. If we do not act first, then they will catch us by unawares and take Camelot once and for all - as they have wished for decades."_

_"You sound like you know them well," Athur commented._

_Uther looked at him sharply. "To know the heart of one sorcerer is to know them all. It started with the Lady Nimueh, and it has spread. There was a time of peace where magic was allowed to be used freely. It was a time of pain, suffering and betrayal. This is why I must send you Arthur; I need you to understand how I feel and what you must do."_

_"And what must I do?" Arthur asked._

_"This..."_

!

Arthur shivered as he remembered those words, his voice faltering. At the time, he hadn't known what to think of his father, but now he had seen sorcerers' power first hand, he could understand it. To harness that power would be a great asset; but to have it used against them would be their greatest downfall.

Finally, he finished reading the last name and kept silence for roughly two minutes of the clock. Then he signalled to one of the knights and they came forwards with a flaming torch.

Arthur took it, and then looked over to the cage with the two prisoners. The girl, Freya, had tears running down her face. In fact, she reminded Arthur quite strongly of Morgana.

No.

He shook his head; she was nothing like Morgana, apart from her dark hair, pale skin and firey spirit.

The other prince, Merlin, had a strange look on his face. It was hard to make out from this distance, but from the way one of the torches lit up his face, it looked like it was full of pain and sorrow… and pity. Pity, aimed straight at him.

Arthur shook his head again, angrily. How did the boy manage to make him feel so many emotions so easily?

"The men of Caerleon are sorcerers, thus they shall be burnt, as is a sorcerer's punishment."

"You're wrong!"

The voice came both unexpectedly and expectedly from the cage. Merlin. Arthur turned to the pyre, where the corpses had already been stacked, ignoring the foreign prince.

"Not all of them were sorcerers; some of them were normal men, like all of you, without a single drop of magic. But you are ready to condemn and burn them without a second thought just because they lived in the same country and fought in the same war as those with magic?"

Arthur almost froze - almost. Somehow, he managed to keep himself moving, lighting the pyre with the torch in his hand before throwing it in.

Merlin was right; he _had_ been ready to condemn those people, just because they had lived in a country where magic was allowed. It hadn't even crossed his mind that those without magic would voluntarily live there.

Should that change his view of them? After all, it was their choice to live in a country riddled with magic, with the foulest of arts. Their choice to die for that country. He resisted the urge to pinch his nose at the whirl wind of thoughts.

"May their souls rest in peace!" He called out.

"And the sun be ever in their sight," came the chanted reply.

Hurriedly, he stepped forwards, eager to get back to his tent, to privacy. "Go rest," he shouted. "We break camp at dawn tomorrow; we move out by noon."

The men dispersed quickly, and he with them. He needed some time with just him and his thoughts.

!

Merlin stared deep into the flames, mesmerised by their dancing patterns.

"They're gone," Freya said beside him.

He nodded wordlessly.

"Eli, Lars, Ben..."

There was a steady _tap, tap, tap,_ as Freya's tears dripped off her face and onto the metal below.

"You know, in the actual battle, it wasn't quite real? I mean, it was happening, and I could see it, hear it, feel it, smell it, but it wasn't quite, and now… they're just gone. And no one will be any the wiser."

Merlin didn't answer, instead watching the fiery figures in the flames. It seemed no one was going to wheel them back to the camp.

A ghoulish figure, a leering face, a twisting dragon.

Why had he freaked out when the dragon died? Now Merlin looked back on his actions, he felt sick and ashamed of himself. If he hadn't sent them away, they would surely have won the battle. Sure there had been a casualty - more than one, surely - but that was to be expected in war.

Deep down inside, he knew what it was - but refused to accept it.

_Merlin._

A voice, that had called him from far away. A voice that belonged to no human, but had to belong to- _Kilgarah_.

The Great Dragon.

A cry of longing from the creature as it realised it was no longer alone.

The fire burned on, and the night turned into day as the two captives sat side by side, staring into the flames.

!

The next morning, the camp was broken up quickly. All of the men were eager to be going home, so even though the amount of equipment in proportion of people was at great odds, everything was packed and ready well before noon. There was a sort of electricity in the air that everyone could feel - even Bedivere had perked up through his hang over that had managed to push through to the next day, despite all of Gwaine's tips.

The only people who weren't excited were Freya and Merlin. Every step towards Camelot that was taken, was another step closer to their deaths.

They set off quickly; the men were all eager to be going home, and it showed in their walk and manner. They were soon out of the forest and onto a well worn path that showed the way that the army had come before. Arthur, at the front of the procession on one of the only free horses looked back over his men and wondered just how long their good mood would last.

!

The next few days passed both quickly and slowly for all. They walked all day except for a short break at noon, and to make camp at night. The camp would be broken in the early hours of the morning and they would be off before the morning was properly light.

At noon, while the soldiers ate, a plate of food would be thrown into the cage along with a tankard of water. Merlin always insisted the Freya eat first, letting her eat more than half, before taking what was left. They kept the water, only drinking a sip at a time.

Each night, Merlin watched Freya take a sip of liquid from the vial round her neck, never asking the question upon his lips in fear of what the answer would be.

It was on the fourth night that it happened, just as the sun was sinking down beyond the horizon.

"Merlin," Freya whispered, nudging him slightly.

"Mhm?" he said, stirring slighty.

"I-I've run out."

"What?" Merlin's eyes snapped open and he sat up straighter. "Please don't tell me you're saying what I think you're saying..."

Freya bit her lip, brushing the hair out of her eyes. "I am."

Merlin sagged in his chains. "Well, that's it then." Then he looked at Freya. "How long?"

"Until the moon reaches its zenith." Freya wiped a hand quickly across her face, trying to disguise the tears in her eyes.

"Then we still have time."

"What- no!" Freya grabbed his arm, alarmed. "What are you thinking?" she hissed. "You are bound in anti-magic chains, in a cage enchanted to stop magic, but you still would try?"

"For you." Merlin said. "Anyway, we don't know how strong they are. It could just be meant to stop sorcerers with minimal power."

"But Arthur said-" Freya broke off and lowered her voice as she saw unwanted attention coming her way. "Arthur said that the more powerful you were, the more consequences there would be."

"Yes, and what consequences will the be if I don't? _I_ know you won't kill me, but do they?" Merlin gestured to the knights and tents around them. "What do you think they'll do to you?"

"I don't know."

Merlin settled back in his chains. "What herbs does Will use?"

"Merlin-"

"What herbs?"

Freya thought for a moment, then told him, the obscure names rolling off her tongue easily.

Merlin closed his eyes, then started the spell, foreign words of the Old Religion dripping off his mouth like water. It was long and complicated, and by the end, several knights were whispering and pointing in his direction. Merlin was gazing ferociously at the tankard that had held water earlier in the day - as they were jolted over a bump, it had tipped over, the liquid spilling out.

Finally, he finished the spell, and at the same time that his eyes flashed gold, a scream was torn out of his lips and he was somehow - magically - thrown against the bars of the cage. His arms were almost ripped out of their sockets, and he screamed again, the sound cutting through the night.

Freya screamed as his head lolled back and he fell into unconsciousness. "Merlin!" she cried, rushing forwards as fast as she could in the cage.

He didn't respond.

"Is he breathing?" someone shouted frantically behind her, and as she leant down to check she realised with a shock it was Arthur.

"Yes," she breathed as she felt the rushed of air against her cheek.

"_Stupid_ boy!" Arthur moaned from outside the cage, pacing. "I warned him that there would be severe consequences…"

Freya looked at him strangely. The prince sounded like he actually cared.

"What was he doing? My father will kill me if he's damaged…"

"Trying to conjure some water," Freya lied. It was close enough to the truth.

Arthur scowled. "He could have asked," he muttered to himself, before raising his voice. "When he wakes, tell him he's lucky." He turned to go back to his tent, signalling to two of the knights as he did so. They stood together in a little huddle, talking so that the prisoners couldn't hear.

"I want you to guard them," Arthur said. "Sound the alarm if anything else happens."

The knights nodded and bowed.

!

Merlin woke half an hour later, just as the moon began it's final stage of ascent in the sky.

"Did it work?" he asked, making Freya jump.

Silently, she handed him the jug. There was a single drop of moisture at the bottom. "It's not enough," she said. "If I drink it, it would just make the transformation process more painful."

"It worked then! I could try to make some mo-"

"No!" Freya sighed. "It's too late." Her eyes flicked to the sky where the moon was tantalisingly close to its zenith. "I can feel it."

Merlin tried to turn as best he could in the chains, facing Freya. "I'm here," he said. "I won't let anything happen to you. It'll be fine, I promise you. I swear to you on my mother's life."

Freya didn't answer as her arms began to tremble, her face screwing up in pain.

"Oh god," Merlin muttered.

"Fine," Freya managed to say. "Be fine."

Merlin nodded, blinking furiously, the chains holding him back as he struggled. The two knights guarding the door were shouting for attention, sounding the alarm.

Freya's legs and arm began to shrink, growing dark hair.

"What's happening?" a knight shouted, fear in his voice.

Freya finally screamed, the pain becoming too much. Tears rolled down her face. "Fine," Freya gasped. "Be fine." She repeated it like a mantra until her voice turned into growl. Her body grew until Merlin was squashed against the side of the cage, his lungs crushed, barely able to breath.

Outside, a crowd had gathered, consisting of knights gaping in fear and wonder. Arthur pushed to the front as Freya - no, the beast - snarled and growled at the knights. "Get it out!" he cried, reaching for the key to the cage.

Frantically, his fingers worked at the lock and all he could think was- _no,no, this can't happen _- his father's words ringing in his head. And maybe, just a little, possibly, it was because he cared for the prisoner.

Finally, the lock clicked open and the door sprung outwards. At once, the monster leapt out, spit flying, jaws snapping, eyes flashing. Arthur yelled to his knights, feeling rather than seeing them form up beside him. His hands signalled almost without him thinking and his knights obeyed without question. This was serious, a life-threatening battle.

Arthur attacked first, his sword moving in flurry of attacks, the moonlight gleaming of it blindingly. None of his blows landed as the beast twisted and dodged, never attacking back. The knights closed in around him and together they worked as one.

This, Arthur reflected, would be a night to remember.

!

In the end it happened quickly. One of the lesser knights who was lower down in the pecking order did the deed. Later he would get promoted.

Merlin watched, the tears running down his face as he screamed, shouted, begged, tried to make them understand. His eyes noted the sword begin the jab and knew what was going to happen.

"Freya!" he yelled, now trying to get her to listen, knowing that human part of her was in there somewhere. If she would just get out the way-

In the end, he signed her death warrant. She looked at him, completely missing the sword and their eyes locked. They shared something in that moment that Merlin would never be able to describe.

The sword hit fur, then skin, then heart.


	7. Never, Forever

**Name: Taken By The Storm**

**Chapter: Seven**

**Summary: Two armies meet. Only one will be victorious. The consequence will effect the whole of Albion.**

**An: **Woah, you say. Another update? But it hasn't been a month yet... you mean Sagebush can actually write quickly?

Yes, people, I can. World news! Be impressed, I wrote this yesterday and finished it off today. And bonus, it's the longest chapter yet. Not much of the knights I'm afraid. And the characters might be a little OOC.

Shameless self promotion: please read my prologue of Whispers On The Wind. I'd like to know if I should continue it, so please drop a line and tell me what you think.

Anyway, on with the show.

Reviews equal love!

* * *

Bedivere walked forwards timidly, his steps small and skittish. The tray of food and the jug of water in his hands shook. Two other knights flanked him.

Two days. Two days since it had happened.

He glanced nervously at the men next to him before calling out, "Prisoner."

Best to give him a bit of warning.

Merlin didn't show any sign of having heard him, and he took that as a good sign. He'd seen what had happened to some of the others and he rather liked having his fingers and head attached.

Slowly, cautiously, like approaching a wild animal, he walked forwards and shoved the tray and jug into the cage before jumping back as if shocked. He moved backwards quickly.

The man in the cage didn't move.

The other men moved on, but Bedivere stayed put, watching waiting. A few minutes later he felt a presence come to stand next to him.

"Why?" He asked. He didn't look up as he focused on prisoner. "He's not eating, not sleeping, not drinking. He's going to kill himself."

"Maybe that's what he wants." Lancelot brushed his dark locks back.

"Why?"

The older man turned to him. "Take Eibhlynn. Put her into the girl's position. Put yourself in his." He gazed deep into his eyes. "Maybe then you'll come close to understanding."

And Bedivere did. He grimaced. "You've been in that situation?"

"Yes."

There was a brief moment of silence as they watched the prisoner's face contort into something like a grimace and a smile, as if he were remembering some fond memory that had turned bitter.

"Anyway, we've got work to do." Lancelot said.

"Miles to walk." Bedivere groaned.

They started walking to their packs as a voice called out. "Moving out in ten!" The words echoed in the trees that surrounded them Soon the call was repeated and the clearing was flurry of movement.

"Cheer up," Lancelot said as he shouldered his pack and strapped on his sword. "Tomorrow we'll be home."

!

Oh god, it hurt.

He felt the pain as if he himself had been stabbed, not just her. A pain in his chest, a sword in his heart. So much pain, how was he still alive?

So numb, how could he still feel?

So broken, how would he ever be whole?

Time had passed in a blur. It could have been a day, a month, a year. At some point, they had taken her body - her body that had reverted back to it's normal self - and burnt it. He vaguely remembered clawing at the cage, tears like a river, animalistic cries coming out of his mouth as they took her away. Reaching out as much as he could, just for one last touch, the pleas flowing out of his mouth like water.

_"Please, Freya, no! Don't be dead, can't be dead, please!"_

As desperate as someone with the devil inside of them, locked away for their own good.

_"Freya-" A heart broken sob, his face contorting, settling straight into shock. At the same time, feeling a fury like no other building up inside of him, his eyes flashing gold, a knight outside the cage collapsing to the floor, clutching his head. Again, again, again. They were dropping like flies. _Oh god, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt! _Somehow still awake, still fighting._

He remembered people shouting, screaming. People pulling at his arms, holding him back, himself screaming, joining the cacophony.

_Shoulder, chest, head, pain._

A solid blow to his head.

He hadn't done anything since; not that he remembered. Perhaps once, someone had gotten too close, too quickly, too unexpectedly. He had acted without thinking and paid the consequences. But had that been before, after? While it was still happening, while Freya was still alive?

He couldn't remember.

All he could remember was _her_, her smile, her smell, her mannerisms. The way she couldn't help but see the best of everyone - _until now_, his mind whispered, _not anymore_.

He hadn't seen the sun rise that morning and he wouldn't see the sun sink below the horizon.

Time stayed still, and he with it.

!

It was a cold morning; not necessarily chilly, but the air was sharp with clear blue skies and a bold sun. The guards' breath were visible.

"Hey, Ben, can you hear that?"

Two guards on the west side of the castle on the battlements looked at each other, one opening his eyes blearily, the other wide awake.

"How many times, it's Benwick, not Ben!" The older of the two said irritably, his dark eyes flashing the same colour as his dark hair.

"Never mind that, can you hear it?" the guard said again, shifting his feet impatiently.

"Hear what? For all the gods above, Kanen, if this is another false alarm, I will murder you while you sleep."

"Never mind that, can you hear- there!"

The sound of a horse neighing carried with the wind. Benwick relaxed. "That's it?" he asked. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're sitting over the stables."

Kanen frowned. "It's farther away than that. Coming from over there." He pointed towards the Darkling Woods and frowned again as something caught his eye. "Can you see that?"

"See what?" Benwick stood up abruptly and walked next to Kanen. "Curse you to hell," he mumbled, "I'd just got to sleep as well."

Kanen didn't point out that they were on guard duty and therefore supposed to _guard_, not sleep. "Over there, just to the east of the woods. A flash of silver, moving, coming towards us."

Benwick stood up straighter. "You're right." He paused, listening closely. Faintly, only just audible, a _thud, thud, thud, thud_ could be heard.

"You're eyes are younger than mine," he said quickly. "What else can you see?"

Kane squinted closely, leaning precariously off the battlements. "It's an army," he realized.

"I know that, dammit, whose crest can you see?"

"My eyes aren't that much better than yours," Kanen snapped. "What does the Caerleon crest look like?"

Benwick frowned. "A blue background. Gold eye in the middle, with a staff and a sword."

Kanen relaxed. "It's Camelot." He suddenly grinned. "We won!"

But Benwick was still staring at the silver figures that were coming out of the trees. "Kanen," he said slowly. "How many of them are there?"

"How many do you think?" Kanen turned and the smile died on his lips. "Oh."

"How many? Fie, tell me how many?"

"Not enough." Kanen visualized how many had marched proudly out of Camelot and compared the small force he could see now to the picture in his imagination. "What happened?" he whispered.

Benwick tensed. "The prince," he said slowly. "Can you see the prince?"

"How do you think I'm going to tell from here?" Nevertheless, Kanen leant out again, straining his eyes. "I can't tell- wait-" A figure, a tiny dot from this distance, was moving differently. Sitting on a horse. The only person riding. "I think so," he said. "I can't be sure, but I think so."

"Good."

The single word was full of satisfaction.

"Go, spread the message, make sure everyone's prepared." He grimaced. "I'll tell the king."

!

A knock on the door of his chambers interrupted Uther's breakfast. His servant was standing by his shoulder with a wine jug, having just dressed him.

"Come in," he snapped, loud enough for whoever it was to note his displeasure. The doors swung open almost immediately and a guard hovered in the doorway.

"Milord," he gasped, bowing deeply.

"What is it?" Uther asked, picking a grape and popping it into his mouth as if it were of more interest than the man who had obviously run all the way to his chambers.

"It's the prince, sire," the man said, straightening. "He's returned."

The king had stood up before he even knew what he was doing. "You're sure? It's him? Is he alright?" He gripped the table tightly. "Does he return in victory?"

"You can see for yourself, sire. They're approaching from the Darkling Woods."

Uther strode forwards, dismissing his servant with a wave of his hand and pushing the guard out of his way. He paused for a moment to ask, "The west battlements?" and waited for an affirmative before striding on.

He burst out into the open and strode to the edge, immediately searching for his son and finding him at the front of the procession. The very _short_ procession.

His smile turned to horror. Already, what was left of the army had halved the distance to Camelot and the losses could be seen much more clearly. Barely fifty men; their armour covered in blood and sweat, limping, battered and bruised.

_Click, click, click_.

Morgana's heels clattered against the stone as she hurried to join him, her lime green dress and long hair trailing behind her in the wind. She scanned the sordid group returning to Camelot in what looked like calm acceptance.

"How could this have happened?" Uther whispered.

"They had magic." Morgana said simply. "We didn't."

They stayed in silence as the sun rose higher in the sky, until the procession had made it's way to Camelot's front gates. Already the cries of screaming children and mourning women could be heard as they realised their husbands weren't coming back.

"Are you happy now?" Morgana asked, turning to her king. "Is this what you wanted?"

"If we have won, then it is as I had wished."

"Is that it? When that army left, there were nigh on a thousand soldiers, knights, guards. Look at them now; how many?" She snorted. "Barely fifty."

Uther's eyes flashed in anger. "You don't understand Morgana. You weren't there." His expression turned haunted as he remembered a time long ago. "I thought Gorlois had taught you better."

Morgana shook her head in disbelief. "No, I wasn't there. Which is why I can probably see what you can't; people can't help who they are! If they have magic, so what? Has a single one of the so called sorcerers you've arrested used magic for evil?"

"Morgana!" Uther turned to look over the battlements again. "I suggest you stop talking before I have you thrown in the dungeons."

"No!" she said in disbelief. "You think every time someone speaks against you, you can throw them in the dungeons or execute them-"

"Guards!" Uther bellowed.

"Tell me Uther. Was it worth it?"

The king looked at the procession, his eyes trailing from the front to the back, his eyes alighting on the cage at the back. A boy sat in it and even from this distance, Uther could see the dark hair and pale skin attributed to those with magic. His eyes caught on the ears, and an image sprung in his mind. An older, more weary man, who had dined with him not that long ago. Balinor.

"Yes," he said, a slow smiled forming across his face. "It was."

!

Merlin stumbled into the throne room as he was pushed from behind, trying desperately to keep his balance without being able to use his hands. The chains that bound them clanked with every step.

He had woken out of the stupor that he had fallen into at some point, becoming more alert with each step towards Camelot's gates as he felt the danger he was in more keenly. Yes, he was still mourning Freya, probably always would, but no, he was not going to let that grief kill him.

He took a good look around the room, seeing the stares the lords and ladies were giving him. They were standing round the edges of the room, dressed in all their finery, obviously aiming to get the king's ear by being a part of his court.

On the throne sat a man just past his prime and with the beginnings of a belly. A crown sat on his head, a scar on his brow, and a scowl on his lips.

Finally losing the battle of balance Merlin fell to the floor, banging his lip uncomfortably and drawing blood.

Someone laughed.

Boots walked past him and he shifted, trying to sit up and get a better view. One of the guards saw his plight and in a moment of kindness gripped his arm and pulled him up.

"Sire," Arthur was saying, bowing to the man on the throne. Uther.

"Arthur," the king smiled. "You have good tiding I presume?"

"The army of Caerleon has been defeated, though not at great loss. In fact, I wish to speak with you privately about the matter-"

"Later." Uther waved his hand dismissively. "Who's this?"

"Prince Merlin. He's the only Caerleon survivor of the battle."

"You killed them all?" the king asked, his eyes calculating.

"…Yes."

Uther nodded, then stood up thoughtfully. He looked Merlin up and down with a critical eye, then walked round him in a circle, as if he were viewing a horse for sale. Merlin looked up, narrowing his eyes.

"Father?"

Uther ignored his son, instead favouring his prisoner. "Merlin," he said. "I am going to give you an offer. I want you to think very carefully.

"I am willing to let you go. I am willing to let you run back to your little_ magic_ kingdom, even continuing to rule. In return, I would like three things. One, your utter loyalty. Two, your secrets. And three, you would become regent, me your king."

Merlin took a moment to find his voice; it had been so long since he'd used it. "No."

Uther looked taken back. "Or we can torture you until you give me what I want anyway."

Merlin shook his head, scowling. "Never."

The king shrugged and suddenly he was a different man. No longer the kind, thoughtful, father and king he had been before, but suddenly a bitter, hateful man with grudges he'd never let go. He was suddenly a dangerous and volatile man.

He gestured to someone behind Merlin. "Take him to Gaius, make sure he's healthy or close to. Then take him to the cells." He moved back towards his throne. "We'll see how long it takes him to crack."

Once again, rough arms grabbed Merlin and he was dragged back out of the room without a heed to his injuries. As the doors closed, he heard words that chilled him to his core.

"Arthur, you must prepare a force to go to Caerleon itself. Attack while they're still weakened, without a leader."

Once out of the throne room Arthur hesitated, then steeled himself. Before he prepared to leave again, he had a couple of tasks to do, whether he liked them or not. On top of the list was Morgana.

First of all, he went to her chambers but found them empty except for the servant girl. Gwyn or something. He thought of asking her, then saw a passing knight and asked him instead.

"My lady is the dungeons, sire," he said, bowing. Arthur raised an eyebrow but turned in the direction of the lower elements of the castle.

Once he was in the dungeons it didn't take long to find her. All he had to do was follow the noise.

"How do you expect me to drink this? Does this look like water to you? Does it?"

He let a wry smile grace his features as he saw the woman looking haughtily at a guard, holding out a jug of - what looked like - river water.

"Morgana," he called softly.

Her gaze snapped round and her mouth fell open. "Arthur! What are you doing here?"

His eyes found a particularly interesting piece of ceiling where three cracks joined together to make an interesting pattern.

"Arthur Pendragon, tell me right this second, what you are doing here."

He winced. Best to say it quickly. "Your father," he said awkwardly. "He didn't survive the battle. An arrow-"

"Stop." Morgana sat down on the bench provided; small evidence of how the news effected her. If she was in her right mind, she wouldn't have even gone near it. "Stop there."

"I'm sorry."

Morgana looked up, her eyes brighter than normal. "And where, exactly, were you when this happened?"

Arthur stuttered. "I-I don't know. It was a battle Morgana-"

"You _let_ this happen?"

Arthur started backing away, planning his retreat.

"They had magic, Morgana! Shields, dragons. He was lucky - it was a clean death. Others weren't given such a-"

He got to the door, turned and ran.

"You coward, Arthur! Arthur Pendragon, get back here! You are a murderous, cowardly, _stupid_- get back here!"

Morgana's shouts followed him up the stairs and he winced.

He pitied the guards after he was gone.

!

Merlin was pushed and pulled through so many corridors, twists and turns, stairs and courtyards that he was lost almost as soon as he was out of the door. The guards were relentless, never slowing or stopping, making him move at their pace, and if he didn't, they dragged him along.

Finally, they reached an oak door - a lot smaller than some of the others he had seen - and he was pushed inside.

The first thing he saw was another door, straight in front of him. Then he cast his eyes around and saw books, some ancient, some newer, some written in strange languages that he'd never even seen before. Potions, bottles, herbs. General chaos. And sitting at a table, one eyebrow raised in disbelief, was an old man with shoulder length grey hair.

"What's going on?"

The guards followed him in and shut the door behind them. "The king's orders, sir. He wishes for you to make sure the prisoner's fit and healthy, and if not, give him the necessary treatment."

"Who is he?"

"Prince Merlin, sir. He's a prisoner of war."

The old man's manner changed instantly. "Prince Merlin, eh?" he muttered. "You can leave," he said, dismissing the guards with a wave of his hand.

"But sir-"

"He's hardly going to run off is he?" the old man pointed out. "He looks as if he can barely stand up. And it's not as if he can try anything with those chains on him."

The guards looked at each other. "All right," the first one said. "We'll be outside the door if you need any help."

It wasn't until the door shut again that the man moved. He came forwards eagerly. "How's Hunith? Is she well?"

Whatever Merlin was expecting, it wasn't that. "If you don't mind," he said. "Who are you?"

The man smiled. "Dear me, I've forgotten my manners. I'm Gaius. Your mother's brother." He hesitated. "Your uncle."

"Merlin," he said. "But you already knew that." He squinted at the old man. "You're my _uncle? _What are you doing here?"

"It's a long story. One we don't have the time to go through today." The man moved to one the tables and picked up a couple of potions. "So, where do you hurt?"

Merlin grimaced. "Everywhere. But mainly… my shoulders and my wrists."

"Yes…" Gaius trailed, picking up a glass and mixing two potions together. "It's a wonder you can move them looking at them. Here, drink this."

Merlin opened his mouth obediently, then gagged as it went down his throat, choking. "What was _that_?" he gasped.

"Something that'll make you feel better. Now-"

Gaius sat down on a chair and offered one to the prince who sat down gratefully. "You're in a dire position. One that I can't help you out of."

Merlin nodded.

"However, if you somehow escape, you'll know you have at least one ally." He nodded to himself. "You are a prisoner of war. You're going to be tortured for information. If you don't die in the first stage, or crack, Uther'll kill you anyway." He bit his lip. "He trusts me. I'll see if I can lessen his anger, from this end at least. It's not much, but…"

"Why? You don't know me-"

"Hunith is my sister. Any friend or child of hers is a friend of mine."

"Thank you."

"I wish you luck my boy. Whether that means a quick death or something else, I don't know." He stood up and opened the door, sticking his head out. "He's ready."

Merlin's eyebrows shot up. "That's it?" he cried.

"You're shoulder's already been wrapped and I can't reach your wrists with chains on. I've given you something for the pain and something for infection. It's as much as I can do in this short a time."

The guards grabbed him again and suddenly he was being pulled out of the room, the door shutting behind him. The last thing he saw of Gaius was the old man falling wearily into a chair, head in hands.

Pushed, shoved and pulled down more corridors, more stairs, more turns until he reached the dungeons. In the first few cells were peasants who looked vaguely disgruntled or annoyed, further in was a woman of obvious nobility. Still deeper they went, down more stairs until Merlin was they must be fifty foot underground. At the end of a cold, dark corridor was a final cell. Unlike the other cells, three of the walls were stone. The fourth had bars that stretched from ceiling to floor and were embedded in the stone itself. The door had four locks; three conventional, the other made of runes.

Merlin had very bad feeling.

It grew with every step closer to the cell and even the guards seemed to feel it, gripping him tighter and walking faster as if trying to get it over and done with. Merlin glanced at the runes that covered the cell and the corridor and paled. This wasn't just magic; this was dark magic.

Runes to suppress magic. Runes to suppress the soul.

With a final jerk he was thrown inside the cell and door clanged fatally shut behind him. As fast as he could Merlin rolled over so he was kneeling. "You can't leave me here," he cried. "Please."

The guards looked at each other, one of them turning the keys in the locks, one by one. Once the task was done they turned around quickly and started back down the corridor, almost running as they tried to get away from the dark place.

Merlin's cries rang after them.

"You can't leave me here! Do you know what these runes _mean_? Please! No-"

The words cut of suddenly, there was a gasp of fear. A scream.

The guards didn't look back.


	8. Dreams of Destiny

**Name: Taken By The Storm**

**Chapter: Eight**

**Summary: Two armies meet. Only one will be victorious. The consequences will effect the whole of Albion.**

**An: **So yes, I know it's late – again – but it's getting better! Just in case your wondering, I will now be continuing Whispers On The Wind, but I need to first catch up with my other fics. (Grins guiltily)

The thing is, I wrote half of this chapter, then when I went back to finish it, I couldn't find it. So I had to write it again, and the second time round it turned out completely different. This chapter introduces some of the themes and some important characters. I hope you enjoy it and it's not OOC.

Also, I haven't had time to answer reviews because my schedule is hectic at the moment. However, some of your reviews had me dancing in glee, giving me very strange looks from my family. Thank you so much! Your support is greatly appreciated and really means something!

Reviews equals love – and inspire me to write faster!

* * *

Lancelot stared at the chess board for a good five minutes before he reached forwards and moved one of his pieces. Opposite him, Gwaine frowned.

"Where'd you get so good?" he frowned.

"Where'd you get so bad?" Lancelot shot back, smiling.

"Not fair!"

Lancelot raised an eyebrow and resisted a smirk as the other knight moved one of his pieces into the trap he had been preparing for the last four turns.

"I've always been too drunk to play in the past," Gwaine explained, gaping as Lancelot took another one of his pieces. "You must have been playing for years though." He moved a pawn forwards.

"Started playing for the first time last week." Lancelot leant forwards, moved his knight and smiled with satisfaction. "Check mate."

At that moment, a particularly loud and tormented scream found it's way down the stone passageway and bounced round the small room.

"How long has he been with him now?" Gwaine asked, dropping his voice.

Lancelot glanced down the corridor. "An hour at least," he said hollowly.

They were referring to Uther who had disappeared into the dark towards the cell with two guards a good time ago. The sounds that had floated to them since hadn't been good.

Both men lapsed into silence, deep in their own thoughts, and when a few minutes later voices and footsteps reached them, they jumped.

Uther appeared first, lips pressed together, his stride fast and furious. The two guards he had taken with him walked in his wake, faces pale, hands bloodied.

The silence rang after they had disappeared from sight and the two knights looked at each other in silence.

"I-"

"D'you-"

Both started and stopped at the same time, just as another scream floated down the corridor.

"Uther's left," Gwaine stated slowly. "He didn't leave anyone down there."

Lancelot met his gaze, shaking his head slightly.

"Then why's he screaming?"

?

Pain. So much pain. Pain that felt like someone or something was ripping him apart, his soul, his mind and his body.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't move. No way to express his emotions- _make it stop!_

He could hear the screams inside his head. Or was it real? He couldn't tell.

_Please, somebody, help me_.

They bounced round his skull and images cropped in his head, faces and names to go with the voices. He grabbed his hair, clutching hard as he tried to use the pain to distract him from those haunted voices, those memories.

And suddenly the voices were gone and all he could see was the throne room in his father's castle, the palace of Caerleon. He was sitting on the throne, the stone chilling him and making him uncomfortable as he tried not to shift too often. His mother stood behind him, to his left, Will was stood to the side, a scowl on his face as he glared at Merlin, his face clearly saying, _why did you make me come?-_

"No," Merlin sobbed, "no!" He knew what was coming, knew what was going to happen, didn't want to see it.

Suddenly the doors to the room were thrown open and a little man ran in, sweat dripping of his red face, his clothes ragged and dirty. Soft voices murmuring to one another sprung up at once and past-Merlin raised a hand for silence. It fell immediately.

"Sallis," he greeted, keeping the note of worry out of his voice.

"Sire!" the man bowed, voice pained, sweat flying everywhere and Merlin felt his heart stop-

_"No, no!"_

"The king is dead. Betrayed by Uther."

The words rung round and round his head, he couldn't make it stop, couldn't stop himself from remembering-

Freya, in her animal form, snarling and snapping, multiple swords pointing, slashing, jabbing-

He screamed.

!

Gwaine stared down at the figure in front of him, unsure of how to act. This was a situation he'd never been in, and he glanced to Lancelot to reassure himself. To his dismay the other knight looked just as shocked as himself.

The screams had been bad, terrible, nightmare provoking, but the personifying image of those sounds- it was worse.

The prisoner, prince, _Merlin_, was curled up in the foetal position on the unforgiving stone floor, tears streaming out of his closed eyes as he moaned and howled unintelligible words and clawed at his hair and face. Blood and water mixed in the cracks in the stone and drained to the furthest corner of the cell. Too much blood. More blood than he had ever seen coming out of one person.

"Merlin."

Lancelot's gentle voice made Gwaine jump and he looked over at the other knight questioningly. The other man shrugged as if to say, _you got a better idea?_

"Merlin, can you hear me?"

The heaving heap of skin and bones on the floor seemed to shudder before laying still. Gwaine suddenly noticed how pale the man's - boy's? - skin was in contrast to the blood that seemed to cover him and soak his clothes.

"Is he-" Gwaine asked, a note of fear creeping into his voice.

"I don't know."

Merlin's head shifted as if he were turning to look at them, though his eyes remained closed.

"How-"

"I don't know."

The change in their tones seemed to distress Merlin, and he suddenly stiffed, taking a deep, shuddering breath before sobbing again, words falling out of his mouth without any meaning. "Won't- Freya, no- never- won't- no I- won't, won't, won't-"

"We're not here to hurt you, Merlin. You can trust us."

Gwaine looked at the dark skinned man and caught himself wondering at how he seemed to emanate an aura of feelings such as _safe_ and _calm_. How he managed to form words to try and comfort a complete - enemy - stranger in pain, when the sight of him and so much blood made even Gwaine want to into a corner and throw up.

Merlin stilled again and seemed to sag slightly as if he had seen everything Gwaine just had and understood. Impressive, seeing as he still hadn't opened his eyes.

Gwaine suddenly felt the weight of the silence and realized that Lancelot was looking at him expectantly. His meaning was clear.

_I've done my bit, your turn now mate_.

Gwaine swallowed, reached for his hip flask and mentally cursed as he realized he'd left it back at the guard post. He leant against the stone wall, ignoring the runes etched into them and let himself slide to the floor.

"Hey mate," he said, swallowing to relieve his dry throat - again. "Like Lance here was just telling you, it's alright. The nasty men have gone now." Gwaine traded a look with Lancelot. "They're not going to hurt you now, so you might as well brighten up." He swallowed again, and then - to his surprise - found his next words already in his mouth. "Y'know, I used to have a friend like you. Modest chap. Interested in the greater good, always trying to do the right thing. Wicked sense of humour though..."

!

Much further up in the castle, in a certain prince's chambers, another soul was not having a restful night - for night it was. The candles had been snuffed out, the windows shut, the curtains closed, but Arthur didn't seem to notice any of it as he tossed and turned in his bed, the sheets twisting around him, darkened in places where sweat had soaked them.

No one saw him as his face contorted and he muttered into his pillows, and when he woke up he would make sure they never would. Although they were visions his mind would revisit constantly, he would make sure no one would ever find out how close he had come to-

_Fear. He could feel it, could taste it, an unpleasant sensation in his mouth that he sought to be rid of but couldn't seem to as it took over his senses._

_"You can't leave me here! Do you know what these runes _mean_?"_

_The vision of the cold stone and unforgiving metal with the retreating backs of two guards blurred and morphed until it turned into a forest, his view partially obstructed by metal bars, a beast in the centre of a circle of knights, surrounded by swords, himself at the front of the attack._

I know this, _he thought_. But not like this.

_He saw one sword reach out further than the others and strike the killing blow, but was unprepared for the sudden shock of grief he felt, as strong as if he had been struck himself._

_The image morphed again and all he could see was black, but more than that he could feel the pain that came not just from his body, but from within, could feel the blood dripping from his skin and the tears from his face. A comforting voice reached his ears dimly, as if the speaker was a long way off._

_"...See, I'd been in this tavern before and I might not have left the best impression..."_

_Another blur and he was standing in a courtyard he'd never been to, gripping the arm of a man he'd never met, emotion stirring from deep within. He spoke with a voice that wasn't his own._

_"I'll see you soon. Remember your promise; give it two weeks, maybe three, and if I'm not back-"_

_"You'll be back," said the other man, his face constricting with emotion. "This isn't goodbye."_

_Arthur felt himself lean forwards and give the man a full, proper hug. "Goodbye Will," he whispered._

_The vision changed again and he was starting to feel sick of the constant changes. This time he was in a cell, the stone walls seeming to press in on him, the runes taunting him. He was chained to a wall, two guards standing in front of him and Uther behind them._

_"You will tell me!" the King roared, his eyes flashing furiously and Arthur felt himself cower into the stone wall but the word still spat out of his mouth._

_"Never."_

_A signal from Uther, a flick from one of the guards and red hot, searing pain struck up from another part of his body._

_Would it ever stop?_

With a start he woke up, chest heaving as he looked up at the drapes that covered his bed. He shoved the covers off and strode over to the window, going behind the curtains and leaning against the cool glass.

He was confused, frightened and scared.

Those images he had seen were like his own memories morphed and twisted to make them all the more horrifying.

But then, he had seen himself, had watched himself battle a beast with none of his own emotions. It was like they weren't even his own memories; it was like they were someone else's.

Coming out from behind the curtains he started pacing back and forth furiously as if he could make the images go away if he just-

God, this must be how Morgana felt after every nightmare.

Arthur stopped stock still, a crack in the curtains allowing a beam of moonlight to alight on his bare chest. How many times had his father's ward come to him, upset and shaken as she described her nightmares and her fears, and he had sent her away telling her not to worry? How wrong he had been. This nightmares were of another calibre. You couldn't just be told 'It's okay, you're being silly, it's just another nightmare,' because it wasn't. Just another nightmare, that is.

He felt like an idiot.

Another thought struck him as he climbed back into his bed, straightening the bed sheets out as went.

Morgana's dreams also had a tendency of coming true.

!

Arthur wasn't the only one having bad dreams. In another wing of the castle Morgana was also tossing and turning. She clutched the sheets tightly, her knuckles turning white, her hair splayed wildly about her.

A figure watched her from the doorway, her face etched into a frown of concern, her dark curls partly obscuring her vision.

Gwen hated this feeling at night; knowing her mistress was in distress but being unable to help her. She knew from past experience that the Lady Morgana wouldn't wake except of her own accord. The nightmare had to run it's own course and more often than not, her mistress woke up screaming.

Slowly, she moved around the room, lighting the candles in a pattern that she knew Morgana liked and sat to wait patiently.

The nightmares had been happening a lot more recently, Gwen knew - even if her mistress didn't tell her. That was partly why Gwen had stayed so late tonight, so that if Morgana needed comforting once she woke, she was there.

All of a sudden the relative calm was broken as Morgana started to become more vocal, muttering and moaning into her pillow, the words intelligible but clearly meaning something.

Gwen tensed but didn't move, instead playing with her hands; clasping them then unclasping them, twiddling her fingers, chewing a nail. She brushed her hair out of her face and wiped dust of her dress. Anything to diffuse the nervous tension she felt.

Her head whipped around as finally her mistress sat up with a jerk, her face wild as she opened her mouth and screamed. Her eyes were wide, and in what Gwen knew must have been a trick of the light, they seemed to gleam a different colour; a sort of gold or yellow. At the same moment a candle snuffed out on the other side of the room and there was a loud banging on the door.

Gwen glanced at Morgana, then rushed over to the door, opening it and sticking her head out to find herself facing several guards with their weapons drawn.

"Nightmare," she whispered and they nodded, sheathing their various weapons again and moving back to their posts.

She shut the door again and hurried over to the bed and sat down, putting her arms around the distressed woman who was rocking back and forth, back and forth, staring at the opposite wall with unseeing eyes.

"It'll be alright," Gwen whispered. "You're fine. You're in your room with me, Gwen."

Morgana didn't seem to hear, though she responded to her maidservants touch by drawing closer to her. "Merlin," she chanted, her voice catching. "No, Arthur- Merlin, no."

"It's alright," Gwen soothed, her words seeming to make no difference. She sighed to herself but carried on muttering the soothing words, the calming statements. It had been a while since Morgana had had a nightmare that bad, but Gwen knew how to break her out of the trance.

It would just take a long time.

!

Lancelot and Gwaine were walking away from a now peaceful Merlin, their footsteps echoing and bouncing with every step.

"You did… well back there," Lancelot commented. "I didn't think you were an emotional kind of guy."

Gwaine thought on that for a few minutes before answering. "Neither did I."

The table they had been sitting at before came into sight, the chess board still set, the pieces frozen on their squares.

"Do you ever feel that everything's wrong with the world?" Gwaine asked, sitting down.

"How'd you mean?"

"Like… the Knights of Camelot are supposed to be noble, brave and bold, but all I've seen so far is a bloody battle and the leader of said knights and his father torture a helpless man."

"Yeah." Lancelot looked down. "It's not what I expected either." In his minds eye, he could see the bright red cloaks of the proud men standing in formation as they fought to save the kingdom from peril, the image he'd had since he was a child and first decided that he would become a Knight of Camelot.

"And then, do you ever feel like your life's been planned out for you? Like you don't have a choice of what you get to do?"

Lancelot frowned. "Like a parent, dictating what you can and can't do?"

"Sort of." Gwaine reached for his hip flask and took a long draught. "But it's not my parents. More like… someone's got a book of my life and every decision I make, they already know what I'm going to choose and they're already planning how to influence me."

"Right."

"Ever felt like that?"

Lancelot thought for a moment, to be nice. "Nope." Then he frowned. "Well… I don't know, now you mention it..."

"I thought so."

"What made you feel like that?"

Gwaine stretched and leant back in his chair. "Oh, lots of things. But mainly- did you think it's a coincidence that we met on the way to Camelot?"

Lancelot's frown deepened. "Of course."

"What, all of us? Elyan, Percival, you, me? All of us met each other on the way to Camelot, all of us wanting to be knights. The few weeks before the biggest war in a century."

"Well, when you put it like that," Lancelot said. "What do you think? That it's this mysterious person with a book of your life?"

Gwaine smiled. "It sounds crazy, doesn't it?"

Lancelot couldn't help but crack a grin as he leant forwards and started setting the chess pieces out again. "Mate, everything you say sounds crazy."

!

Will strode across the room, reached the fireplace, turned on his heel and walked back the way he had come. There was a scowl on his face and his hands were clasped tightly behind his back.

"Will, pacing isn't going to help."

He stopped abruptly and turned to face the speaker, a woman whose dark hair was tied back, her face pulled into an elegant frown.

"I'm sorry Hunith," Will said sounding anything but, "but he said a fortnight!"

"He said to give it between two and three weeks," Hunith corrected. "There's still time." Even so, a note of worry had crept into her voice.

"I can't sit here and do nothing!" Will cried, clenching his fists. "What if he's dead? What if he's bleeding out on the battlefield with no one to tend to his wounds? What if he's a prisoner of war?"

"Then he'll expect you to do as he asked!" Hunith retorted, rising to her feet.

"Tough, I'm going to look for him." Will strode over to the door, grabbing his cloak.

"No!"

Will knew he'd pressed the issue too far; he'd said something wrong. Only once before had he seen his best friend's mother so angry; normally she was a calm and placid soul.

"And what if there's a trap? What then? My son knew what he was doing and he gave you tasks he wanted done in his stead. If you were to die, with those tasks uncompleted, what then?"

Will sagged, the cloak falling to the floor. "He's my friend," he said hollowly. "I don't want to lose him."

Hunith closed her eyes and when she opened them again, they were suspiciously bright. "I've already lost Balinor. I might have lost Merlin. I don't want to lose you as well."

They met each other's gaze. "Thank you," Will said quietly. His father was long dead, his mother was dying and his best friend was missing; Hunith had just stated - whether knowingly or not - that she saw him as part of the family. "It means a lot."

He sat on one of the more modest chairs in the room and supported his head with his fist, eyes travelling the room as he lost himself in thought. _This was Merlin's favourite chair. You can hear the servants chatting in their courtyard; he used to love that._

"We'll give it another week," he said finally. "If there's no word by then or..." _or if he turns up dead_. "If there's no word by then, we'll have the ceremony." He grimaced.

_Merlin, you'd better turn up. There is no way I'm becoming king_.

!

Gaius was considering taking one of his own sleeping potions. It was a last resort because frankly, lack of sleep coupled with excitement wasn't good for his old bones.

Wheezing slightly, he stood up and shuffled over to his bench of potions, peering among them for the right one. Finally, he selected a clear bottle that contained a mixture that was half mud brown and half bright purple. Shaking it slightly, he waited until it had mixed into a murkier, darker purple, then got into bed. That way, if he fell asleep too quickly he wouldn't wake to find himself on the floor.

It was ridiculous really; he should have been sleeping as soon as his head touched the pillow what with the amount of hurrying around the castle he'd done today, but thoughts kept whirling around his head.

_My nephew… is here in Camelot. He's a prisoner of war_.

What was he to do? Uther had already confided to him that he fully expected to have the boy broken within the week, and if that happened then the next attack on Caerleon would begin and the King wouldn't have any need to keep Merlin alive.

_Hunith must be a wreck_.

He knew how much family meant to her and he wouldn't be surprised if she was bottling her emotions up, staying strong for her kingdom but unable to break once she was alone. She'd done it before, he knew, and it wouldn't take much for her to fall apart again.

Gaius felt the stirring of something in him and closed his eyes tightly. Some ink and paper sat on the table in the corner, he'd write to his sister tomorrow. He'd have to find a way to influence Uther as well, somehow make the ordeal easier on Merlin. Maybe he could get Morgana on his side; she loved to contradict the King.

He sighed, pushing down the small draught of fear that was starting to strike up. If all failed… then he knew someone else he could also go to for help. Things were stirring, had been ever since that morning. Somehow, it all linked to Merlin.

_It's a dangerous game your playing, _he told himself. _But if you win, it'll all be worth it_.

He uncorked the bottle and downed it in one, asleep before his head even touched the pillow.

!

Far beneath the castle the ground shook and rocks fell as yet again a roar, so loud, so big, so _almighty_, it seemed to fill the cavern, the only thing there was. Silence? Pah, silence could not exist in that earth shaking sound. Once again, fire scorched the stone, the only light in a dark, dark place.

When finally, the noise stopped, the silence was suddenly thundering loud and all consuming.

Then, finally, that stopped too as the sound of clanking echoed through the air and huge shape seemed to appear, both darker than the surrounding black, but lighter too. The air seemed to shake and more rocks fell, then the shape seemed to settle itself on a perch. One last shake, like a hugely distorted and enlargened bird, ruffling it's feathers, then another roar shook the very earth. Somewhere, deep inside, hidden by the loudness of it's own noise, the creature was speaking.

"Uther!"

The voice was terrifying, hoarse from either being used too much or not all, a voice of a thousand voices with the power of an army.

"Brethren!"

The cry turned longing, pitiful, the voice of someone broken, calling to the people who look and watched with no pity in their eyes as they continue to break.

"Free me! Hear my call!"

He had been the last, but must now be the first, because there were more, he was no longer alone. He had seen, seen the destiny of a young man, and through him, _them_. But his voice hadn't been heard in years, they would likely not hear him now. So he tried harder, deeper.

"Merlin! Listen to me!"

And this time, he could feel a connection, a link with the human's mind. A world of pain and darkness, but a world that was new; the human had no idea how it felt to live that way for eternity.

"Merlin!"

Why didn't the boy listen? Was he deaf? Dumb? Blind? But no, he had _seen_ the destiny, _seen_ what the little human would become. But something was holding them apart, keeping the warlock either from hearing him or replying.

He roared again, fire flaming out of his mouth, eyes gleaming brightly as he called for anyone who would listen.

It was hours later that he finally stopped, as the new sun rose into the sky. He moved away from his perch, deeper into the earth, farther into it's dark depths.

It seemed Kilgarrah would spend another day alone.

And his new knowledge of his brethren made it all the worse.


	9. Waking Nightmare

**Name: Taken By The Storm**

**Chapter: Nine**

**Summary: Two armies meet. Only one will be victorious. The consequences will affect the whole of Albion.**

**AN:** Happy Christmas and/or Happy Holidays! My present to you is – finally – a chapter of this! I'm sorry I didn't update in November. I'm not sure I warned anyone, but I was doing NaNoWriMo and I really didn't have time. As well as writing the 50,000 words for the challenge, I almost killed my back by falling down the stairs, killed my netbook with hot chocolate (the keyboard and the wireless now don't work :( I had to get a new one.) and got RSI on my left wrist. Fun, fun, fun.

Anyway, here's the chapter – I hope it's okay – and as an even bigger present, I've made it my goal to update all of my chapter stories over the next few days, so keep looking out.

And because it had to be put here, I got an amazing santa hat from one my friends. It doesn't flop because it stands tall on its own xD Epicosity rises! (Don't ask.)

Please read and review (I love you forever if you do!)

* * *

Uther stood by the windows in his chambers, looking out with his hands clasped behind his back, legs apart. Below him in the courtyard and the lower town people hurried about their business, talking and laughing as they went. Although the general mood was darker and more subdued than normal, the people had gotten over their initial shock from the aftermath of the Battle of Caerleon over the last few days.

Behind him, the doors to his chambers opened and someone shuffled in. He waited until the doors had shut again before turning to face his court physician and most trusted advisor.

"Sire," Gaius bowed. "You wished for me?"

"Yes."

Uther looked briefly out of the window again, his eyes locking on the knight's training field where at that very moment Arthur was training the new recruits.

"You have been my most trusted advisor and a good friend when all others have failed, despite your previous practises. I hope you will advise me again as best you can."

Gaius stiffened slightly, his eyebrows pulling together to become a frown. "Of course, sire."

Uther met his gaze for a few moments, chewing on his words, before finally biting them out. "Am I doing the right thing?"

"Sire?"

"He's still so young..."

An expression slid over Gaius's face so fast, it was almost never there. An emotion sparked in his eyes, something that looked like hope as he said, "Sire, if I may be frank?"

"Please Gaius." Uther rubbed hand wearily over his face as he turned to face the window yet again.

"Then no." Gaius took a deep breath. "You're being too harsh and took cruel. If you keep pushing him like this, then you're never going to get what you want. He's at his breaking point."

"What should I do?"

The physician looked at him carefully. "I think you should lay off him; give him some time to recover. How he's survived this long, especially given his injuries, I don't know-"

Something in Gaius's words set a bell ringing in Uther's mind but he ignored it, instead focusing on the last part of the sentence. "Injuries?"

"Of course-"

"But you told me he was fine – in almost perfect health even!"

"Almost perfect," Gaius cried. "I wish it were so. Besides, I gave my diagnoses days ago, you can hardly expect for his condition to have got better, surely."

"You're not making sense, man! You told me that his health was fine – surprisingly so – and that he would be completely healed by the end of the week. He was fine when I dined with him this morning, he gave no sign of pain at all."

"You... dined with him?"

"Yes," Uther snapped. "Why would my son have gotten worse?"

There was silence for a moment as the two stared at each other. Gaius seemed to deflate, the spark in his eyes going out as he sagged in on himself. Uther watched his reaction with shrewd eyes and something that may have been a hint of concern. He got the feeling the old man had gotten the wrong end of the stick – what stick he didn't know.

"Sire, I think you misunderstand me," the physician said, recovering quick;y. "I do mean physical injuries – those you can see with flesh and blood – I am talking about psychological injuries such as those in the mind."

Uther looked at his old friend quickly. "What do you mean? Speak, man!"

"A battle is a terrible thing even for the most hardened man. Merciless killing and horrific sights. Arthur is very capable young man but he's still young. So far he had born the weight on his shoulders very well, but only time will tell."

Uther faltered for a second. "How would I know if he was… suffering?"

"Nightmares and constant flashbacks are common symptoms. If he seems to be acting strangely in any way, you should come to me immediately."

"And you could fix this 'injury'?"

"I could try." Gaius bowed. "If that is all, sire, then I have my rounds to attend to."

"Yes..." Uther waved a hand absent mindedly. "Yes of course. Thank you, Gaius."

He watched as his friend shuffled out of the room then turned back to the window, his gaze once more sliding to Arthur and his knights, wondering how long it would take him to notice if his son had a 'mental injury'. Then he replayed the conversation he had just had in his mind, slowly.

He had a feeling it had been important.

If only he could work out why.

!

"How many dragons are under your command?"

"None." Merlin smiled up at his torturer. "Dragons have something called free will. You might have heard of it."

_Crack!_

A scream. Torn from closed lips.

"How many people guard the city?"

"Depends what you mean by guard and people. If you mean hairy maggots like you, then, uh, none."

_Crack!_

Blood ran in steady rivulets down his back, warming his bare sking.

"Who rules the kingdom in your absence?"

"You know what? I don't know."

_Crack!_

Cuts on cuts, fresh blood on old blood. There didn't seem to be a single piece of skin on his back left intact.

"How many people live in the city?"

"Let's see." A thoughtful look.. "There's me, mother, Will, Bruk-"

_Crack-crack-crack!_

The torturer let loose a howl of fury, his arm raising and falling in a blur, the blows raining down on the prisoner who refused to break. How many people could survive constant torture for a week and sill look their tormentor in the face and _smile_?

His vision was red. He found that he wasn't aiming any more, the nine 'tails' of the cat whip lashing down with a strength he hadn't known he'd possessed. His wild slashes hit the prisoner's face, arms, legs, back, chest, blood being drawn with every blow. The prisoner screamed with each blow, the sound so alien it couldn't be described.

Eventually, he stopped.

He was panting. The whip was hanging loose in his aching hand. Sweat mixed with the splattered blood on his face, running down in small streams. His pupils had shrunk, the whites of his eyes showing, his nostrils flared.

Merlin hung in the air, still suspended, his head lolling to the side. He was staring straight ahead. Not moving. Still.

With a frightened cry, the guard leapt back. The cell door clanged open and he half fell, half ran out, slamming it shut and leaning against the bars, panting. His eyes seemed to lock on the bloody mess that leant against the wall.

After a long, heart stopping moment, the boy's chest rose then fell.

A wave of relief crashed down on the guard and his knees went weak. The prisoner was alive. He hadn't killed him. That was when he noticed that just as he was staring at the foreign prince, the prince was staring at him. Their eyes met. Then, slowly, deliberately, the prisoner smiled. His cheeks pulled upwards in a wide grin, his teeth showing, the sight made all the more horrific by the blood still running down his face, down his body and onto the floor.

With another frightened cry, the guard fled.

?

Merlin waited until the footsteps had faded away, until his chest had stopped heaving and until he was sure that no one else was going to come down the long tunnel before he let himself sag against the wall. The blood still dripped, the pain was still there.

He found he didn't care.

And only now he sobbed and screamed and cried for mercy; only now when no one could hear.

!

Will looked the druid in the eye as he waited impatiently for the answer to his question. Standing behind him to his left was Hunith, already looking much more worn and tired, just a week later.

"It'll be hard," the druid, a small man with short legs, a wide brow and darks eyes said. His druid name was Illian though he said that his mother had name him Col. "There's no guarantee it's going to work."

Will nodded silently.

"You should know, there is a strong chance that he is already dead. If that's the case, then I'll have to pull immediately. Few people have tried to find a dead man's mind, and those who have – well..."

"I'm well aware," Will said stiffly, clenching his hands into fists.

Illian bowed. "Very well, my lord."

"I'm not a lord."

"If I may, _sir_ - yet."

Will scowled and Hunith placed a placating hand on his arm. "Fine," he hissed. "Just get on with it." He shrugged the hand off angrily.

The druid sniffed. "Very well." He turned to a table he had set up previously and muttered several short spells – to enhance his power, he had told them earlier, so that there was higher chance of finding the lost prince. He washed his hands in a small hand bowl then sat down on a plush chair closing his eyes and holding his hands out in mid air, palms facing forwards.

Will and Hunith exchanged glances just as he started to cast the spell, his mouth twisting around the strange language. A silence soon followed in which they assumed the spell had been cast.

"It'll be fine," Will muttered to Hunith. "He's going to find Merlin; he'll be fine. He'll have got lost or something and he'll turn up-"

Hunith gave him a small smile and he fell silent.

Illian groaned, and they both looked at him. He seemed to be in pain, his hands grasping his face as it twisted in apparent agony. He started muttering again, but this time in English and something that was obviously not a spell.

"Stop. Make it stop. Please."

Will shook his shoulders, trying to wake him from the trance he'd fallen into for the spell. "Illian?"

"No, please-"

"Illian, are you all right? Wake up!"

He shook the man a few more times, hard. There was still no reaction and the druid was starting to mutter faster, feverishly. He sent a helpless glance to Hunith then turned to face Illian once more.

"Sorry about this," he said then slapped the man as hard as he could.

With a shout and a start, the druid came back to reality, eyes wide. His hands clutched the table tightly, knuckles going white. Will was pretty sure that if he hadn't already been in a chair, he would have fallen to the floor.

"Illian? Are you all right?"

Illian dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "He's alive," he said "Just."

"What do you mean?" Will could feel his stomach roiling like a sea serpent and was certain that Huntih felt the same.

"Merlin. He's hurt. Badly." Illian shook his head. "It''s like hell. He's so alone, so cold and so hurt and all he wants is for it to stop but even then..."

"He's been taken?" Will heard rather than felt his voice shaking. "He's a prisoner?"

Illian nodded wordlessly.

Hunith paled and clutched Will's shoulder as if it were the only thing keeping her from collapsing to the floor. She suddenly looked a whole lot older than her years. "Is there any hope?" she whispered.

"If there is..." Illian looked away from the distraught mother. "He could do with some."

Her knees did give way then and she slipped to the floor. At the last moment Will caught her and lowered her gently to the floor. "Hey," He said gently. Then, to Illian; "Leave us, please. Inform the guards that no one is to disturb Lady Hunith until she feels ready."

The druid left as fast as his short legs could carry him.

"Hunith, it's not over. We have some spies in Camelot; we could send them to the castle and have them find Merlin and help him to escape. I'll make sure they find him-"

"Will." Hunith looked up, the tears in her eyes, ready to fall. "He's a prisoner of war. If he's not – moved on – already, he soon will have."

"Not necessarily," Will protested. "Uther could find a healer for him-"

"Will."

"There's still hope; Illian said he's alive."

"He also said that -" Hunith faltered. "It's too late. We're going to have to accept that."

Will opened his mouth to retort but caught himself. This was not a time to be selfish. Hunith had just found out that her son was dying, almost dead and here he was trying to spread false hope, rubbing salt into the wound. He sat down next to her and placed and arm around her shoulder, drawing her close. She responded to his touch by leaning her head against his shoulder.

For a moment, they just hugged, drawing comfort from each other as they both started to get over their initial shock. Then Hunith began to shake, shoulders trembling and chest heaving as she sobbed and hiccuped, tears rushing down her face like a river, soaking into his shoulder.

Will clutched her tighter. He said nothing because there were no words to say. His best friend was dying. There could be no wishing it away.

With a small hiccup of his own, his own tears began to fall.

?

"Right, that's it. Rest. Training is tomorrow, the same time."

The knights looked to their prince, ill disguised relief filling their faces as the obeyed his order to stop. They had been training for four hours, strenuous at the best of times but even more so with their diminished ranks and an irate Arthur. The only blessing had been that the weather had held off for so long.

Clapping each other on the back and sheathing their weapons, they headed back up to the castle.

Arthur watched them go, brushing his hair off his sweaty forehead, sword still in his hand. As training sessions went, it had been okay but he felt dissatisfied. He couldn't help but feel that they needed more than okay to win the war, but more than okay he wasn't getting.

"Hey, princess!"

He looked up and sighed. Only one person would ever dare to call him that but the way this week had gone so far, he needed to check. Sir Gwaine came to a stop in front of him, his hair unusually limp as one hand rested on top of his ever present hip flask.

Really? Did he have to deal with the rogue knight _right_ now?

"What is it Gwaine?"

The knight drew himself to his full height. "Them," he said, jabbing a finger at he knights heading towards the castle. Only a couple were still in the field, obviously waiting for Gwaine to catch up with them. "Us."

Arthur sighed again and sheathed his sword with great effort. "Can't this wait?"

"No," the knight said stubbornly. "I want to know; when are you going to lay off us? We've trained every day for the past week for four hours. We've only just recovered from the last battle and already you're pushing us towards the next. We're exhausted. You need to give us a break."

"Need to do I?" Arthur asked. "In case you hadn't noticed, Gwaine, I am the Crown Prince of Camelot while you are but a knight. I don't _need_ to do anything. Anyhow, did you fail, somehow, to notice to notice the way we were almost completely slaughtered in the Battle of Caerleon? If you don't want to see that again, then you need to train."

"Train?" Gwaine snorted. "This isn't training. But if you want to see slaughter, you'll soon see it when you lead us into battle, exhausted and ready to drop before we've even started."

Arthur's eyes flashed angrily. "Gwaine. It's not your place. In fact, your 'place' could soon fall even lower. I'm sure you remember that your place in Knights of Camelot is only due to my good will. Your claim of nobility is... feeble at best and it wouldn't be hard to review it."

"Oh, so you're going to pull rank on me now?"

"This is for your own good!"

Arthur didn't realise that he'd shouted until he saw everyone staring at him. He rubbed his face wearily.

"My own good." Gwaine shook his head. "Working me to the point of collapse every day while strengthening the work load because of a recent decline in numbers. Supposedly training me for the battle that may kill me anyway. Why're we fighting the Caerleon's anyway? Oh, wait a moment -"

"Gwaine."

"- It's because your father has a grudge."

"GWAINE! Stop right -"

"Or is it for their good too? Are we freeing them from the imprisonment of magic? Are we freeing them from the imprisonment of _life_?" He spat the last word. "And what about Merlin? You know, the prisoner that you've been torturing every day of this past week. I've heard some of the guards say he's gone insane – some say that he was before he got here. But he still doesn't crack. He doesn't cry. And he doesn't beg for mercy."

Gwaine leaned in closer, a faint leer on his face. "But that's when people can hear him, isn't it. Because when he thinks he's all alone, that's when he break. That's when he cracks. He screams and he sobs and he cries for mercy. He doesn't know about the guards at the end of the corridor. The men who can hear every. Single. Word.

"But you wouldn't know about that would you? Because you've never come down that far into the dungeons. Never once looked in on your pet prisoner to see how he's doing." He cocked his head to the side. "Is it for his own good too? Lying on the floor bleeding and screaming and so, so alone -"

"Stop." Arthur said hollowly. "Please.

Gwaine did, looking at his prince with something akin to disgust.

"Why?" he asked. "Because you asked nicely?" He shook his head again. "Merlin's asked. Every day since he's arrive. And not once had anyone granted him that one simple wish."

Gwaine glanced him up and down as if appraising him, then turning and stalking off. His hands were clenched by his side.

Arthur stared after him. He didn't move. He wasn't sure if he could. He watched as the other knights followed Gwaine into the castle. Did they all feel like this?

_Merlin's asked. Every day since he's arrived._

The heavens opened and the rain fell.

!

Later that day he was to be found in chambers, pacing back and forth as he pretended to be doing the tax reports. He'd dismissed his servant half an hour earlier and warned the guards not to let anyone in.

His wished that he actually had some reports to do; maybe then he'd take his mind off of the prisoner that had no right to be occupying his thoughts.

So what if he was in pain? He had tried to kill Arthur. He had magic. He was corrupted and evil.

_But it's not just pain is it,_ his mind whispered. _It's torture._

Gwaine's words kept floating around his mind, as much as irritating as the actual man. They had sparked a seed of doubt into his mind. What if all of his knights thought the same way? What if they were whispering behind his back saying how they did not wish for him to be their king if he could not show one man mercy?

But that wasn't the real problem, his real worry and he knew it.

_But you wouldn't know about that would you? Because you've never come down that far into the dungeons. Never once looked in on your pet prisoner to see how he's doing._

_I don't need to, _he thought. _And I definitely don't want too._

And there was the crux of the problem. Every night since he had returned to Camelot, he had been attacked by strange dreams. Gruesome and horrible in detail, nothing he had tried could stop them. Gaius's potions. Morgana''s advice. His own efforts of exhausting himself so that he was too tired even to dream.

Nothing worked.

Every night, the visions penetrated his mind and woke him. Unable to sleep but unable to do nothing he had taken to wandering around the castle at all hours the night.

Why? Why couldn't he sleep? Why did these visions from hell attack him while he was at his most vulnerable, making him scared to close his eyes at night?

The visions were not his own. That he was sure of. But neither did they seem to be the one's Morgana had. Hers always seemed to come true, a fact everyone tried to ignore, whereas his were not predictions; they were memories of the past or the resent.

He placed his hands against the mantle piece and leaned, feeling the urge to bash his head against the wall. It had to be the work of sorcery. It had only started after the Battle of Caerleon and there was no way that the dreams were natural. Of course, once he'd narrowed that down, there was only one sorcerer that he knew of in the near vicinity.

He ground a palm into his forehead. That was impossible! He was imprisoned and chained with anti-magic bonds. There was no way he could be causing this.

He let himself fall onto his bed and rested his head on the pillows. Circles and circles, round and round. He was getting nowhere.

Too late, he realised he'd closed his eyes. A fresh wave of panic overwhelmed him but it couldn't stop the blackness at the edges of his vision. It seemed he really had worked himself to exhaustion today. He could only hope that it meant the dreams wouldn't come.

He fought his mind and body for a moment more and then sleep claimed him.

?

Will looked at the mirror, studying the man who stared back, trying to find the similarities.

The other man was the same height as him, had the same coloured hair albeit shorter and cleaner. His face was clean shaven, a direct contrast to his normally stubbly chin. The man in the mirror also wore clean armour and a heavy blue cloak, fastened at the front with the symbol of Caerleon. Will himself was far more comfortable when he wore a loose fitting shirt, simple trousers and his own brown boots. He turned slightly and so did the other man. In this new position the light caught his face full on and revealed the large purple bruises under his eyes and the lines on his face that surely hadn't existed only a few days ago.

The man in the mirror was him.

He stepped back with a scowl of disgust. This wasn't him. Clean, neat and tidy. He shouldn't be doing this. There was no way he could do this. He wasn't supposed to be standing here; Merlin was. His friend was supposed to be taking the crown from his father, a smile lighting up his face as he stepped into the position he had meant for all his life.

He shook his head and banished the thoughts from his mind. He couldn't afford to think like that. From now on, everything he did was for Merlin. He would make sure to do his friend proud.

A servant came forwards, bowing low. "My lord," he said. "It's time for the ceremony."

Will grimaced. "Fine." He glanced around the room one last time, then as two guards pulled the large double doors open, he stepped into the throne room.

When he would look back on this, many years later, he would only remember a blur. Some details would be caught, others lost forever. Trumpets sounded. Heads swivelled to look at him.

Somehow, he reached the throne at the other end of the room and knelt on the cold stone. Someone was reading out something that sounded far too official to apply to him. Dimly, he was aware that he was replying. Then, after a moment of silence, the man stepped forwards with a heavy crown on a cushion.

"I now proclaim you, William Garrowson, king of Caerleon."

He was standing, turning, facing the crowd. Then, as one they started cheering.

"Long live the king! Long live the king!"

Miles upon miles away, leagues upon leagues away, somewhat impossibly, Merlin smiled.


	10. To The Depths of Hell

**Name: **Taken By The Storm 

**Chapter: **Ten

**Summary: **Three knights. Two enemy princes. One war. The consequences will affect the whole of Albion. "When all is lost, how can you hope?" 

**An:** It's late. Again. I have an essay of excuses, most of them real, but I'm sure that's not what you're here to read, so I'll save them to my computer so that no one has to see them ever again. I'm actually leaving in a few minutes, so I might not get to reply to all your reviews from last chapter, and there might be a few mistakes, so I'll say it now; thank you – you're all fan-spiffing-tastic! Most of all, **SpaghetiMonkey**, who decided to guilt trip me (and quite rightly, too) into posting this. Thank you. Anyway, onto the actual story that you're all here to read. Please read and review!

* * *

The air was full of anticipation and expectation at the Pendragon table as they ate in a tense and somewhat awkward silence. Uther sat at the head as usual, with Arthur on his right and Morgana on his left as etiquette dictated. They had come at the king's request, uncertain as to why.

"So, Father," Arthur said finally, taking a sip of his wine. Almost as soon as he'd put the goblet down, his manservant came forward and refilled it. "What news for Camelot?"

"Nothing much," Uther replied, barely glancing at his son. "Just the usual. The people are still complaining about taxes, we arrested another sorcerer yesterday and our spies in Caerleon had reported nothing new thus far."

"You caught another sorcerer?" Morgana interrupted.

"Yes. Rather foolish of him trying to hide in the stables... he'll be hanged at dawn."

She bit back a gasp and instead asked coolly, "What was his crime?"

"Practising magic. One of my advisers caught him as he enchanted a broom to sweep the floor by itself."

"That's all?" Morgana said incredulously. "You would execute a man just for trying to make his work load easier?"

Uther banged a hand on the table. "Magic is evil, Morgana. It corrupts. When will you learn that? It doesn't matter how small the crime is; today he enchants the broom, tomorrow he enchants the knife. I will not have that atrocity running rampant in my city!"

"Father, Morgana," Arthur put in. "There are people present."

"Oh, so you're going to take his side," Morgana said shrilly. "I should have known. Like father like son, after all."

"Morgana, I suggest you watch your tongue before you find yourself back in the dungeons!" Uther thundered.

Neither of them paid any heed to Arthur's words, ignoring him completely as they carried on the age old argument.

"So that's your answer is it? If someone complains, lock them up? Yes, I can see that's worked brilliantly."

"I'm warning you Morgana."

"That's all right. I've got a head ache anyway." She put her knife and fork down and stood up. "If you'll excuse me."

She stalked out of the room without another word, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin as she left. Uther glared after her. Arthur swallowed nervously.

"Father, you know she doesn't mean it-" he started.

"Enough." Uther averted his eyes from the doors. "Let us speak of this no more."

"As you wish."

Silence fell. Arthur took another, longer sip of wine. He felt that he was going to need it.

"How are the knights coming along?" Uther asked as he picked up his own goblet. He let it linger on its way to his mouth as he waited for Athur's reply and the younger felt his wariness increase.

"Well enough. Some of them have shown surprising talent. I never thought that Gwaine would have done this well. And Mathew had cleaned up his sword work; he might even be able to beat Leon soon enough."

Uther chuckled.

"I doubt it. The man has a knack of getting out of impossible situations."

Arthur nodded his agreement. He watched as his father set the goblet down.

"And you? Are you doing well? You look tired."

The question was carefully phrased; too much so. This was obviously the point which Uther had been working towards, the reason why he had asked Arthur to dine with him.

"I haven't been sleeping well," Arthur replied shortly. Uther's hand twitched and a grape was squashed between his fingers, squirting juice everywhere. A servant came forwards hurriedly.

"I see. Is there a reason?"

Arthur tensed. "Not that I know of," he replied carefully. "I've been very busy."

"Have you seen Gaius?"

"No." He cleared his throat. "No, I'm afraid I haven't had the time."

"I think you should. He may be able to help."

"Yes, father," Arthur said, slightly taken back. Everyone knew that anything the King _thought_ should be done _was_ done. It wasn't a suggestion; it was an ill disguised order.

A pause, then, "Maybe you should see him now. No point in delaying."

"Yes sire," Arthur said, bowing slightly and standing up, his chair scraping against the stone floor.

"Yes," Uther said to himself, popping a grape into his mouth. "While you do that, I shall go and see our royal guest."

He looked up at that moment, just in time to see something flash in his son's eyes. For a moment, he stared, puzzling over what it could be. Panic? Pain?

"Yes," he repeated. "I think me and the prisoner need a little chat."

And there it was; a flash of emotion, carefully concealed, but not quite. Uther felt a jolt in his stomach. He stood up and cleared his throat. "And Arthur."

His son glanced at him with a carefully blank face.

"I forbid you to go to the dungeons. The prisoner... he is in a disturbed state of mind."

There was a small hesitation, but then Arthur bowed again, lower this time, more formal. "Yes sire," he said. "As you wish."

And then he walked out.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

They were in the armoury, of course. It was where they always were. Knights had to complete a the beginner test before they even got into basic training, a gruelling program that had made grown men cry. The trained under this program for as long as was needed – sometimes months or even years – and finally, the had to face the toughest test of all to see if they made the cut, still with no guarantee of success. This was one simple challenge; beat Arthur.

Understandably, once surviving being knighted, the men formed a close knit group who not only trusted each other completely, but were also each other's best mates. They also had a small habit of loving their weapons. If they weren't training, they were preparing to train or practising drills. If they were doing that, they were polishing and caring for their equipment. The life of a knight – in times of peace – consisted of not much more apart from eating, sleeping, the tavern and the dreaded patrols.

As it was, they had just finished training and were now cleaning their weapons afterwards. The smell of sweaty men filled the room as their armour was peeled off and they shifted onto their seats more comfortably.

"Ah," sighed Gwaine loudly as he held up his sword. "If I can say one thing about the Knights of Camelot, it's that their weapons are good."

Percival looked up innocently. "And here I was thinking it was the ale," he said.

"That too, that too," Gwaine smiled.

Lancelot rolled his eyes. He was busy polishing his sword, rubbing a cloth in slow circular movements. "You know, I'm sure your supposed to reserve that look of love for your lady."

"You're one to talk, Sir Prince," Gwaine shot back good naturedly.

"Aye, maybe. But then at least I _have_ a lady."

Leon looked over from his space by the crossbows, a mischievous glint in his yes. "Oh, I'd say that Gwaine here has a lady or two. Maybe more than is good for him."

Gwaine's eyes widened. "You saw that! You said you hadn't!"

"I'm curious now," said Lancelot. "You might as well spill the beans – or ale in your case."

"No, Leon, I forbid you to tell him."

"It seems that young Gwaine here is a regular at the Rising Sun tavern. A rather nice bartender who, as I recall, seemed to be getting on rather well with him."

"Leon!"

"While they were quite busy, another young lady entered, looking for her lover. From what I could gather, she seemed to think he might be having an affair with another woman."

A slow smile spread across Lancelot's face. "I can see where this is going."

"Indeed. Well she soon found her lover and was quite distraught as she saw what he was doing. She stormed out, and if my memory serves me well-"

Gwaine yelped. "Your knight's honour," he pleaded.

"-She shouted out for all to hear that 'if anyone else was having an affair with the liver bellied scumbag having an affair with the bar tender, they might as well step out now'."

Bedivere laughed.

"Well, quite a few people stepped out and all of them were quite upset as they realised what was going on. And I'll say it now." Leon leaned in. "Never – ever – get on the wrong side of a woman of Camelot."

Gwaine hung his head and mumbled something to his chest as the others laughed.

"Sorry, what was that Gwaine?" Lancelot asked.

"First bar fight I've ever lost," he repeated dejectedly. They laughed again.

"I wondered where those bruises came from," Bedivere called from the corner.

"And why he could sing soprano yesterday," Percival smiled.

Lancelot patted Gwaine on the shoulder. "Ah well, maybe next time you'll learn to woo a single woman at a time."

"You people have no shame," Gwaine mumbled, sheathing his sword and standing up. "I'm off to find some people who love me."

"Aye," Lancelot nodded. "When will we expect you back? It's just, I'm not sure if the curfew will still be the same in a few years- ow!" He rubbed the spot that Gwaine had just punched.

"Serves you right."

But Gwaine sat back down, content to watch as the others finished with their own weapons. After he had judged the silence went on long enough, he asked, "Anyone know when the next training is? What?"

"The same time it always is Gwaine," Lancelot said slowly. "Everyday at the eighth morning bell."

"I know that," Gwaine waved it away. "I mean when we're being trained by Her Royal Highness."

Leon frowned at him disapprovingly. As Arthur had been dining with his father, he had had to take the training instead.

"You really should stop calling him that," Lancelot commented. "It's disrespectful – especially now we're in Camelot."

"It's meant to be." Gwain scowled. "When he's earnt my respect, he'll have it."

"He led us into battle," Bedivere said from the corner, though there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. "How much more respect do you need?"

Gwaine sent him a disparaging glance.

"He led us into battle and massacred the people who he could have taken as prisoners. He killed a defenceless girl and took a boy who's barely a man prisoner and is even now torturing him. Is that a man who earns respect?"

"This is war, Gwaine," said Leon quietly.

"Aye, and who started it?"

"It's been coming for a long time, since before you were even born. It's just a blessing it's been delayed this long."

"Yes, but who started it?" Gwaine repeated stubbornly. "I've never heard a bad word about Caerleon except within these walls. And who was it who killed Balinor? Who was it who declared war?"

There was a silence.

"Uthere," Leon said grudgingly.

"Exactly, and like father, like son. Yes, I trust him to lead me in battle. Yes, I trust him to watch my back. But do I trust to him to make the right decisions, and to point out when his father's wrong? No. There is one word for what happened twenty years ago, and that's genocide. And if nobody puts a stop to it, that's exactly what's going to happen again."

"You go too far." Leon sheathed his sword, his movements strained. "You have sworn allegiance to both the rulers of this kingdom. You are speaking treason."

"And so what if I am?"

Leon tightened his hand on his sword hilt. "Then I have no other option but to tell the Prince."

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

"Hush, Morgana, it's all right."

Gwen patted her mistress on the back gently, rubbing in soothing circles. Morgana was clutching her as if she were a life line, sobbing into her shoulder, the tears wetting her skin.

"It's not real Morgana, it was just a nightmare. In your head, remember?"

Her mistress didn't reply and she kept whispering comfort and reassurance. Soon, the sobs began to diminish, quieting to small hiccups.

"Oh Gwen," she whispered, shaking. "You need to help me"

"Anything, my lady. You know that."

Morgana raised her head, her eyes round a fearful. "You haven't heard what I need yet."

"A sleeping draft?" Gwen proffered, hiding a nervous swallow. "Gaius can make one up quickly-"

"No Gwen, not a sleeping draft." Morgana wiped the tears from her eyes, sitting up straight and taking her servants hands in her own. "I need you to go to the dungeons."

"My lady?"

But she had stood up and was rummaging through her dresser, finally pulling out a silk handkerchief. Instead of a plain white one like the kind she usually carried, it was a pleasant pale blue. Then, rummaging once again, she withdrew a stick of kohl that she only sometimes wore, and hurriedly drew a symbol on the cloth. Gwen bit back a gasp.

"This. Give this to Prince Merlin, please Gwen. If you hurry, you can take his mid day meal – they won't let you down there otherwise."

Gwen took the handkerchief, perplexed. "But my lady-"

"Please Gwen; for me."

Gwen hesitated for a moment more. "Of course, my lady."

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Arthur walked down the stone steps heavily, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his brow furrowed. It was mid day and prisoners pleaded with him as he passed or screamed abuse, but he ignored them, too deep in thought to notice.

He hadn't gone to see Gaius yet. He was saving that for after this visit. Because if all went well, then the court physician wouldn't be needed after all.

He reached the first guard post and the soldiers leapt up, dropping their eyes respectfully. Arthur waved them down absent mindedly.

"Kanen, Igor," he greeted. "Make sure nobody passes this way."

The guards nodded, looking slightly confused, and Arthur moved on.

He was on his way to see Prince Merlin and that knowledge was weighing heavily on his mind. He was going against direct orders from his father, but after two weeks of sleepless nights full of pain, he had had enough. Uther was getting suspicious and he was fighting a war. He couldn't afford to go into battle sleep deprived and miserable. The time had come to confront the other man.

He reached the second guard post and saw Lancelot and Gwaine. There were only a limited number of knights who were allowed to guard this spot, and of those number, these two knights managed to wind their way down here more often than was usual. He dismissed the thought; that wasn't his problem right now.

"Sire," Lancelot said, standing and bowing as soon as he saw the prince. Gwaine didn't bother. Instead, he inclined his head just far enough to be thought respectful. Arthur felt a sliver of annoyance.

"Make sure nobody comes through," he told them. "I'm going to talk to the prisoner."

The knights swapped glances and he knew what they were thinking. Not bothering to correct them, he turned towards the long passageway that led to the cell.

"Sire," Gwaine broke in and Arthur was so surprised at the title, he stopped and turned.

"What is it Gwaine?"

"Uther's only just left, I don't think-"

"No, sometimes I'm surprised you think at all Gwaine. I'll thank you to remember your place and not to question me."

"But-"

Lancelot grabbed Gwaine's arm and shook his head forcefully. By the time they turned back to Arthur, the prince had already disappeared into the gloom.

His footsteps echoed around him, heightening the already tense atmosphere that only he could feel. Doubts flew around his head, but he pushed them back, steeling himself for what was about come. He knew it would not be pretty; he had been taught how to resist interrogation and knew all the techniques that could be used. None of them were pretty.

As he stepped into the light and saw the cell and it's occupant before him though, he realised that none of that knowledge or preparation could ever have prepared him for this.

It was the smell that hit him first; like a sold fist to his gust, it forced him back a step and brought tears to his eyes as he gasped. The musty, damp smell of old and derelict buildings mixed with decaying bodies, the metallic smell of blood, and the stench of human excrements. The source was a large puddle of urine around where the other prince lay and Arthur looked away, feeling the humiliation that Merlin must be able to feel.

When he looked back, he managed not to retch and look past the injuries and the blood, but to focus on what he had come for.

"Merlin," he said loudly. The prisoner didn't stir. For a brief moment, Arthur wondered if he was dead. Then he saw the blood still running from open wounds and the heaving of the boy's chest and realised that he was merely unconscious or deeply asleep. "Merlin!"

Maybe he should have come later. Uther had just been at work with the torturer, he should have known known that Merlin wouldn't be in a fit state to explain why he was cursing Arthur with terrible dreams each night. But no. Uther had expressly forbidden Arthur to come down here – come another time and he would be caught. And he did not want to know the consequences for that.

Seeing no other option, he leant down and reached a hand through the bars of the cell and shook the boys shoulder. Merlin flinched away with a yelp, his eyes shooting open.

Arthur sighed in relief.

"Merlin," he said cautiously, "can you hear me?"

The other prince mumbled something that he couldn't hear and he leant in. It was a chant of the same words and Arthur felt a strange emotion in his chest.

"Go 'way. Please, stop, stop, I can't take it, please!"

"Merlin," Arthur repeated. "I'm not going to hurt you." He made his voice as soothing as possible and to his surprise, it seemed to work.

"Here."

He held a flask through the bars and Merlin reached out with a shaking, frail hand and sniffed.

"Water?" he croaked.

"Yes."

It was a testament to how desperate the other prince was that he uncorked the drink and took a deep sip. In any other situation, he would have been on the guard for poison or some other trickery. Merlin's eyes cleared a little as he looked up.

"Oh," he whispered. "It's the prat."

Arthur's annoyance was quickly squashed as he realised the the boy hadn't even recognised him before then.

"I need to talk to you," he said.

"That's what they all say," Merlin croaked. He took another sip of water. "Then the pain comes..." he trailed off, his eyes clouding over.

"No!" Arthur grasped his should again and this time it was a scream, not a yelp, that came out. He let go as if he had been burned.

"See."

"I-I'm sorry," Arthur said, still horrified. Then he cleared his focus. "Why are you cursing me?"

Merlin was silent for a few moments.

"Cursing?"

"At night," Arthur prompted. "You make it so I can't sleep."

"Don't." Merlin shook his head feeble. "Can't do magic. Hurts."

"But you can! I haven't slept in a week!" Arthur could hear the desperation in his voice. He could see Merlin slipping away again, eyes looking at an object in the distance that no one but him could hear. Before he could shake the boy however, his vision blurred in a swirl of colours and he was staring at a completely different scene. He recognised it almost at once as another vision.

He was in a small cottage that looked more like a hovel, similar to those in the outlying villages. The dying embers of a fire and the moon shining through a window were the only light. In the furthest corner was a small bed on which a dark haired woman slept, clothed only in a simple night shift. He blushed, but could not look away, because Merlin was not.

They – he – was kneeling sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, rocking slowly backwards and forwards. Arthur realised that they – no, he – felt smaller than usual and realised they were now in the very depths of Merlin's childhood. Large fat tears rolled down his face, dripping off his chin and onto his knees. Every so often he would hiccup, then glance anxiously over at the woman in the corner.

Whatever had made him upset, he didn't want this woman to know about it.

Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, the rocking continued. The tears were not lessening, instead increasing with each hiccup as he tried to swallow the misery down. Arthur found himself once again confused and scared as he tried to back away but couldn't. Then his vision blurred once more and he was by the cell again, now kneeling on the floor, ears ringing as Merlin's piercing scream cut off.

"Scared," the younger mumbled. "Freak."

Arthur realised that the prince had drifted off into memory lane. Dread started to build in his stomach. Did Merlin even realise what he was doing when he forced these visions upon Arthur? Would he ever be able to stop it?

"Merlin," Arthur said in a low voice. The boy snapped back to attention and blinked. "I need you to stop that. Whatever you did just then – stop it."

"Can't," Merlin whispered. "Tried." A tear leaked out eyes, then another. All too soon he resembled the child in the vision Arthur had just seen.

"Freak," he mumbled to himself. "Hurts."

"I know it hurts!" Arthur bellowed, unable to hold it in any more. "You keep showing me!"

Merlin looked up with large blue eyes and Arthur couldn't quite bring himself to meet them, instead staring at a piece of wall behind him.

"Every night," he continued, "I see your memories. I can't sleep, I can't work, I can't focus and it hurts! Like the fiery pits of hell and by the gods, I've never felt anything like it. You have to stop it. I don't think- I'm not sure if I can go on like this."

He couldn't speak any more with those reproachful eye looking at him and he choked over his words every time he opened his mouth. Now he had stopped shouting, he could hear footsteps. His father? Maybe.

He didn't care any more. Not now. Because there _had_ to be a way to stop this.

"Arthur?"

It wasn't his father. It was Gwaine and Lancelot, swords drawn as they came to a halt in front of him. He wondered what he must look like, on the floor, tears drying on his face as he stared at the still figure inside the cell.

"Sire, is everything all right? We heard screaming and shouting-"

"I'm fine." Arthur stood up, dropping a hand to the hilt of his sword to look more in control. He glanced at Merlin. "We were just having a chat."

Gwaine narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You weren't-"

"No." Arthur stared at them evenly in turn. "No I wasn't. Now as much as I appreciate your thoughtfulness for coming up here, I need to go."

Both knight's hesitated.

"Yes sire," Lancelot bowed, nudging Gwaine who grudgingly nodded his head.

Arthur turned to leave. "Make sure the prisoner gets some food and drink, won't you?" he tossed over his shoulder. "He looks like he needs it."

He left behind two very confused knights who swapped glances before looking at Merlin. Only now they saw the flask that Merlin clutched in his hand and they wondered just what had gone on. Then they turned down the passageway and back to their guard posts.

In their confusion, neither of them would notice the dark skinned servant girl who was at that very moment hurrying down the dungeons stairs with a tray of food and a silk handkerchief.


	11. This Is War

**Name: **Taken By The Storm

**Chapter: **Te

**Summary: **Three knights. Two enemy princes. One war. The consequences will affect the whole of Albion. "When all is lost, how can you hope?"

**An:** Phew. Well, I've finally done it. I had a mild panic about three days ago that I hadn't updated in five months, but then I realised it was only two. _Cringes_. Now I'm going to come out with an excuse that you're all sick of hearing – not from me, this time, but from fanfiction authors around the word – I have exams. And uh, those are slightly more important, but they're over in three weeks so I can get back to writing then.

GCSEs are a pain. And can anyone tell me why I chose Geography?

Also, has anyone else been having the problem of _OCs_? They keep slipping into my writing somehow... it must be a plague! Someone call the witch doctor!

Just ignore me. Anyway, please read, review – and, more importantly, enjoy!

_PS: I have no idea if this is any good. It feels... okay, but not brilliant. I thought I should post anyway. You guys deserve an update after such a long wait._

* * *

Gwen's shoes clacked against the stone steps, a tray clutched in her trembling hands and the handkerchief tucked up her sleeve. Her heart was beating wildly inside her chest as if trying to break free and no amount of deep breaths would calm it. Prisoners leant out of their cells as she passed, hands grasping at thin air as they called out to her, pleading with her to let them free.

Never had she ventured so far into the dungeons; she had been Lady Morgana's handmaid ever since she was a little girl with no cause to ever come down here. She wrinkled her nose as a fresh blast of foul air hit her and hitched her skirts up a bit more.

She was almost there – all she had to do was give the handkerchief to Prince Merlin. Then she could go back to her mistress's chambers to calm herself down in peace.

She passed the second guard post with her eyes cast down. It was manned by two knights that she had sometimes seen with her brother. They hardly even noticed her as she swept past but she kept her head down all the same. It would do no good if they recognised her.

She still didn't understand why her mistress had made this request, but she did know that it would never have been asked if it were not important. But why would Morgana be consorting with a prisoner? A sorcerer, an enemy of the kingdom!

But then again, she mused, Morgana had never been one to abide for the rules. And she had certainly never been on Uther's side of the law.

She reached the second guard post where the two knights that sat there were completely lost in thought. At once she recognised them as some of the knights that her brother was often with. She doubted they even noticed her as she turned down the passageway that she knew must lead to the prisoner. Each step she took brought her nearer to a deadly killer and further into the gloom. Her heart started beating harder and faster and struggled to keep the food on the tray as it shook in her hands.

Finally, she emerged into the light and glanced straight to the prisoner. There had been so much gossip among the staff recently that it was hard to know what was fact and what was fiction – even the knights had been heard to swap rumours. Her eyes caught onto the prisoner's face and she gasped. _Balinor,_ she thought – _he looks just like Balinor._ Of course, the two were related but she hadn't expected to see the resemblance. It was made all the worse when the last time she had seen King Balinor was as he burned to death.

She shivered and set the tray down, her eyes straying down the Prince's body. It was like a punch to the gut; never had she known that any one person was capable of doing this to another.

"For the love of Camelot," she whispered and wondered if there was even a name for some of the injuries this boy had. She knelt on the floor and leant through the bars to brush the Prince's hair out of his face. Like this, he looked so small, so child like that he could still be living under his mother's roof.

His brow was on fire, she soon found. It almost burned her hand. It should be impossible, she thought, to be that hot without an open flame nearby. He had not yet stirred and she withdrew her hand, glancing behind her anxiously to make sure no one was coming.

"Sire," she whispered hesitantly. "Merlin, can your hear me?"

"No," the prince moaned, his eyelids flickering. "Not again..."

"I'm not here to hurt you."

Gwen noticed the flask that was resting in Merlin's limp hand. Curiously, she reached forwards to take it, grimacing at the blood that inevitably coated its surface. The top was inlaid with gold and she recognised it at once as that of Prince Arthur's. She frowned.

What was Arthur doing down here? And why did he give the prisoner some water? Unless it was poisoned…No. Arthur was bad, maybe, but he wouldn't stoop so low as to poison a desperate man. Or at least, she didn't think so.

Casting the thought away, she opened Merlin's mouth and started to trickle water slowly down his throat, looking behind her occasionally to check that she was still alone.

When the flask had been emptied, she was glad to see him more lucid.

"Merlin," she said softly and was pleased to see the foreign prince open his eyes and look at her.

"Who're you?" he asked.

"I'm Gwen. I – I have something for you."

She wiped her hands on the cells bars and drew out the silk handkerchief from her sleeve, holding it out so that the hurriedly drawn symbol hung in clear sight. Blood was soaking into the hem of her dress but she hardly noticed. Instead, she was taking stock of Merlin's reaction.

His eyes widened and his lips parted; he reached out with a trembling hand that tried and failed to grasp the cloth. Gwen pressed it into his hand and drew back at once. He seemed to recognise the symbol and continued to stare. At last, he spoke. The words were so quiet that Gwen almost missed them.

"Who are you? Why would you do this?"

Gwen hesitated. She didn't know what the symbol was, let alone what it meant. "It's not mine," she stuttered. "It belongs to the Lady Morgana."

Merlin's eyes snapped to her so quickly that she wondered if it had hurt him; he certainly winced as it moved his head. "M-Morgana Le Fay?" he whispered.

"Y-yes." Gwen felt fear begin to blossom in her chest. "How do you know her?"

But it seemed that Merlin no longer had the strength to continue speaking; his lips moved soundlessly and he stared at the handkerchief again. Gwen started trembling. Abruptly, she pushed the tray through the bars. She stood up and backed away. What if he were trying to do magic? What if he were casting a spell on her? Was that why she suddenly felt sympathy towards him?

She sent one glance back to the prisoner, hitched her skirts, then turned and ran.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Arthur hesitated before knocking on the small wooden door with trepidation. When there was no reply, he tentatively pushed the door open anyway and stepped inside.

He had been coming to see Gaius ever since he was a little boy and certainly more times than should have been necessary. Privately, he thought he knew the place better than anyone apart from Gaius. Books adorned the many shelves in the room, large ancient tomes that looked like they should belong in a room of artefacts, not a physician's chambers. Large bottles containing unidentified objects and liquids littered the room while a strange potion bubbled away in a small pot in the corner. The physician himself was sitting at his work table looking through a large book, his wrinkled finger underling the words as he read them.

"Sire," he greeted in surprise as he noticed Arthur.

"Gaius," Arthur replied. He felt like a small boy again, coming to the physician after his father had rejected him; he even had to stop himself from fidgeting.

"Well, what is it m'boy Your injuries are healing well? Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine." Arthur let the word hang for a moment before continuing. "Actually, it's about the prisoner."

Gaius froze. "Prince Merlin, sire?"

"Yes, it's-" Arthur broke off and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know how to say this," he confessed. "You must promise not to tell my father."

"Sire," Gaius said slowly. "I'm not sure that-"

"Please, Gaius."

It was the plea more than anything that did it; the physician's face softened at once, the eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"Very well," he sighed as though sure he was going to regret it.

"It's Prince Merlin. He seems to be…cursing me. With magic."

"That's impossible - I was there when that cell was made." The physician's face twisted in distaste. "There is no way that the occupant, however powerful, could use magic."

"But that's the thing - he doesn't realise that he's doing it!"

"How do you know?"

Arthur hesitated. "I went down to visit him. He just, zoned out, and then I was seeing the visions again-"

"Visions?"

"That's how he's cursing me; I can't sleep at night because I get these nightmares. I - I think they're his memories."

"But that's impossible," Gaius frowned. He turned to his book shelves and started to pull some out. Arthur recognised the signs of beginning research. "Unless..." he trailed off and looked at Arthur with an expression of wonder. "No," he muttered. "It couldn't be."

"Gaius?"

"I'll have to do some research," the physician said. "I'll tell you the moment I-"

Someone knocked on the door and they both turned in surprise.

"Come in," Gaius called and the door opened to reveal Morgana's maid, Gwen. She started when she saw Arthur, but quickly recovered and dropped into a curtsey.

"Gwen, my dear, come in, come in," Gaius ushered. "Arthur was just leaving."

Arthur frowned at him but nodded all the same. "You must let me know immediately," he ordered. He turned and strode from the room, pushing past the servant girl as if she weren't there.

"Oh Gaius," Gwen said as soon as he was out of earshot, closing the door behind him. It was only now that Gaius saw how distressed she looked, her face drained of colour, her eyes round and fearful. He saw the blood staining her sleeves and the trim of her dress.

"Are you hurt?" he cried in alarm, coming forwards, to grasp her shoulders and leading her to a chair.

"No," she said, beginning to weep. "No, it's not me."

"Who is it? Is it one of the servants?"

"No, it's nothing like that." Gwen wiped a sleeve across her face, smearing blood across it. "It's Prince Merlin."

"Oh my dear," Gaius said in horror, stepping back. "You didn't."

"I didn't want to," Gwen snivelled. "It was Morgana, she had one of her nightmares and when she woke up, she asked me to take the handkerchief to the prince, and - oh, Gaius." Here, she broke down into sobs again.

"There, there." Gaius patted her shoulder and drew a vial from the many on the table. "Drink this, it will make you feel better."

"Thank you."

Gwen gulped it down, grimacing at the taste but not complaining. Within seconds, her sobs began to quieten and she started to calm down.

"Now, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask exactly what happened. Slowly now, there's no rush."

Gwen took a deep breath and nodded.

"Morgana wouldn't tell me what she dreamed about," she said. "But it had something to do with Prince Arthur and Prince Merlin; she was muttering both their names. When she woke up, she was - desperate. She drew out her blue handkerchief and drew a symbol on it, then bade me give it to Prince Merlin. She - she said she wouldn't make me, but she pleaded for me too."

She took a moment to compose herself, then carried on.

"I went down and, Gaius, I've never seen anything like it, not even my father-" she gasped and clasped a hand over her mouth, not quite believing the words that had escaped her mouth. Gaius placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and she carried on. "I'm surprised he's even alive," she whispered. "There's so much blood, and none of his wounds have been bound. He needs help, Gaius, I don't care if he's from Caerleon, or even if he's a sorcerer. It's not right!"

"I know, my dear." Gaius sighed heavily. "I've been trying, but Uther has a stubborn heart. I fear that death will come before he realises..."

Gwen's face crumpled and she cast her eyes down. "I think he tried to use magic on me as well," she whispered. "I was so frightened."

The aged physician placed a full arm around her shoulders, drawing her close to him. "You should take the rest of the day off," he said, concerned.

"No," Gwen said at once. "Morgana needs me. She's been having more and more nightmares recently. I – I'm just being silly." She dragged her sleeve across her face again. "I only meant to come because Morgana's run out of sleeping potion."

"Here." Gaius plucked two more vials from the many and gave them to her, smiling at her gently. "Are you sure you don't need one yourself?"

"No, I'll be fine." Gwen stood up, still snivelling. "Thank you Gaius," she whispered and dashed out of the room.

"You might want to change your dress!" He called after her, but she was gone. He sighed once more and allowed himself to fall into a chair, wincing as his bones creaked. He was getting to old for this – impossible magic, nightmares of the future, distraught servants, stubborn kings, confused princes, and, if he was right, the stirrings of destiny.

He glanced over to the half written letter that sat on his pillow. It needed finishing urgently but his new suspicions made him think that he may need to add to what was already said.

"Merlin, my dear boy," he murmured to himself, "what have you got yourself into now?"

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

"I'm sorry, sire."

Arthur looked up at his oldest knight. "You may go," he dismissed and went back to staring at his desk. Leon bowed and hurried out of the room gladly, leaving Arthur to puzzle over the remaining problem on his own.

The problem was, in one word, Gwaine. Arthur had known when he had taken the young man in as knight, that he would be trouble. Even when he had applied, there had been alcohol on his breath and in his hip flask. Even then, he hadn't shown much respect for his betters. But they had needed the numbers; this was war and they needed every ally they could get.

But treason?

That was another matter entirely and one that couldn't be dealt with lightly. If his father ever got wind of this... Arthur groaned and rested his head in his hands. There was no other option really than to either report him to Uther, or deal with it himself. Permanently.

There was a knock on the door and Arthur's manservant strode forwards and opened the doors impressively, before Arthur could even get the words out.

It was Gwaine.

He strode into the room and stood before Arthur's desk, looking more sober than the prince had ever seen him. His legs were slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back and for once he looked formal.

"Gwaine, I'm busy."

"You're staring at a blank piece of paper," Gwaine pointed out. Arthur looked down at his desk. He was right.

"What is it, then?"

"My resignation."

The words rang around the room for a moment before Arthur could comprehend them. "You're – resigning?"

"Or whatever it is you call it when a knight stops being a knight. Voluntarily. I don't know, has anyone ever done that before?"

"I- not that I can remember."

"Anyway, that's not the point. Sir Leon's already visited you?"

Arthur nodded, face grave.

"Then you know why I'm here. If I resign now – or whatever you want to call it – then you don't have to take action. Your father doesn't need to know and I can leave the kingdom and never look back."

"But I can't let you do that!" Arthur laughed at the thought. "What if you go to Caerleon? You've lived here long enough to tell them how best to attack us, how best-"

"I won't," Gwaine promised. "I give my word that I will never sell the secrets of this kingdom or give them away willingly."

"How can I trust you? You _swore_ to uphold the Knight's Code and still you-"

"One law of the code," Gwaine said with eyes full of fire, "is to never commit treason. Another is to protect the innocent and help the people. I think one outweighs the other, don't you?"

"Gwaine!"

But Gwaine cut him off once more, placing his hands on the desk as he leant closer to Arthur. "When I joined the knights of Camelot," he said, "I thought I'd be doing good. I thought I'd be helping the people in hard times. I thought I could help." He leant back. "But you know what? I've only made things worse. Whatever this is, it isn't helping anyone. Least of all the people."

Arthur couldn't help but remember the argument on the training field the other day. _'Are freeing them from the imprisonment of _life_?'_ He wasn't to place his head in his hands and give up. He didn't want to feel the pain, this uncertainty or this doubt any more. But instead, he looked Gwaine in the eye.

"I'm going to do something my father would disapprove of. I'm going to banish you," he said. "If I, or any of the knights, ever see you in Camelot again, we _will_ kill you on sight." He glanced away. "Despite everything, you're an honourable man, Gwaine, and I don't want to see you die."

Gwaine nodded. The normal punishment for treason was death but if he was surprised by the turn of events, he didn't look it. Then again, Arthur thought, he was a live in the moment kind of guy.

"You'll never see me again," the former knight promised with a quick smile.

"I don't doubt it."

There was an awkward moment then, as neither quite knew how to say goodbye for what would surely be the last time. Arthur raised a hand and Gwaine grasped his forearm reluctantly. They shook firmly. Then Gwaine turned on his heel and strode to the door. There, he hesitated.

"You could be an honourable man, too," he said. "But only when you learn to think for yourself."

The door closed with a thud behind him, leaving Arthur just as confused as when he'd arrived.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Gwaine stopped only twice as he left Camelot; once to pick up a pack and another at the city gates to change a friend's mind.

"Oi, Lancelot," he called. The dark haired knight glanced over and came to meet him, swapping a few words with another knight at the gate first.

"You've done it then?"

"Yeah." Gwaine smiled and shook his hair out of his face. "Planning on coming with me?"

"I'm sorry, Gwaine," Lancelot said. "You know I can't. I've always wanted to be a knight of Camelot, and now I am, I feel as if I can do some good."

"You're blinded, mate." Gwaine clapped his friend on the shoulder, another smile not quite hiding the hurt look in his eyes. "Well, when you change your mind, you know where to find me."

"I do?"

"I'll give you a clue; they'll sell ale."

Lancelot nodded, his lips quirked in amusement. "Got it – follow the taverns and I'll follow you."

"Ah, that sounds about right."

"You know you can't keep living like that."

"No, but it's fun trying." Gwaine hefted his pack on his shoulder. "Well, better go. Places to go, ale to drink, women to meet. I think I'll head over to Escetia, lie low for a while."

"And from there?"

"Who knows?" Gwaine licked his finger and held it up to the air. "Maybe... west. I don't know. I'll see which way the wind's blowing when I get there."

Lancelot smiled. "Farewell, my friend. It's been good knowing you."

"And you."

They gripped hands. Gwaine walked through the gates struggling with feelings of sorrow and freedom. Lancelot had been the first person to be a friend to him. Yet with every step he took, he was going further away.

"It's a shame," the knight called after him. "I could have taught you to play chess properly."

"Never," Gwaine called back. "You'd have been doomed to failure."

He heard Lancelot chuckle and forced himself to carry on walking. This was no different than walking away from his old life, one among lords and nobles, he told himself. He'd had no regrets then and he should have none now. A small voice in his head battled that the knights were the first friends he'd ever had but ignored it. To distract himself, he sang to himself; an old travelling song he'd learnt at his father's feet. It had always captured his attention when he was younger and he allowed it to do so now, hardly paying attention to where he was going as he dreamed of distant lands and fairytale creatures.

_O where go you on the road tonight?_

_O where go you in the failing light?_

_Hush, hush; hear the call_

_Of a elfish song and a dragon's roar._

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

At exactly the same time Gaius was sliding a piece of parchment into a plain envelope, looking around furtively. He placed it on his table, took a deep breath and held his palm out.

"_Sendan hire, hl__æ__fdige-"_ he cut off as the door to his chambers opened abruptly and he wheeled around, certain that he about to be arrested as a sorcerer. He should have known that he couldn't risk it, should have- but it seemed that this day was destined to be full of surprises. Instead of a guard or even a knight, Uther Pendragon stood in the doorway.

"Sire!" Gaius mumbled, bowing hastily.

"Ah, Gaius." Uther strode in and stood by the small staircase. He was dressed in mail and the physician eyes it warily. "It's about the prisoner, Balinor's son," the King continued. "What you said the other day about Arthur got me thinking. He needs time to recover, yes?"

Gaius nodded, unsure as to where this was going.

"I have decided that we shall go straight to Caerleon itself. The city will be ripe for the plucking. Their prince and king are dead, their people are in confusion and our spies have reported some minor rebellions on the borders."

"But you wanted Arthur to recover," Gaius said, struggling to contain his eyebrow.

"It will take at least a week to get there with a large army. Arthur will have more than enough time to recover under your treatment." Here, Uther fixed a stern gaze upon Gaius as if daring him to say otherwise.

"And what has Prince Merlin got to do with this?" asked Gaius.

"Bait." Uther smiled grimly. "A bargaining tool."

"S-sire?"

But the King wasn't listening. "We leave in three days time," he stated. "I trust you will make all the necessary arrangements for our prisoner." He left in a swirl of his cloak and a slam of the door. Gaius stared after him for a moment more, unable to control his eyebrow which had raised to new heights. Then, he turned back to the table where the letter still lay.

"Well, this changes things," he muttered and set to work adding a post script to alert his sister of the new situation. When he finished, he looked around once more, held his palm out and whispered, "_Sendan hire, hl__æ__fdige Hunith folcisc."_

The letter vanished and he sighed in relief.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Bedivere was sitting in far corner of the Rising Sun tavern and he also happened to be very thoroughly drunk. He'd been trying to drink his sorrows away, he explained to the first person who would listen, a sympathetic dark skinned stranger who smelled of the sea.

"I'm a knight of Camelot, you know," he declared loudly and spilled some mead onto the table. "I fought in the Battle for Caerleon! And I'm going to fight again!"

The stranger nodded and if it was a bit forced, nobody noticed. "You must be proud," said he. "Not many people get the chance to fight for their country."

"No," Bedivere shook his head. "But Arthur is – is a great man!" The effect was slightly ruined as he almost toppled of the chair. He frowned suddenly. "His father isn't."

Maybe he was too drunk to realise what he was saying or maybe he was too drunk to care but had Bedivere been in his right senses he would have kept his mouth shut. As it was, he ploughed on and didn't even notice how the stranger leant forward with a new sense of purpose.

"Really? Why's that?"

"He -" Bedivere stumbled through his words as he tried to string a sentence together. "He t-tortures the Prince."

"Prince Arthur?" the stranger asked with raised eyebrows.

"Don't be silly! _Mer_lin. The f-for fore- f-forer-" Bedivere went cross eyed as he tried to remember the word he was looking for. "The one from Caerleon."

The strange bowed his head but the young knight was too caught up waving his mead about to notice.

"S'all right though because he's an – an en-em-y to the c-crown." Bedivere frowned again as if his inability to pronounce a three syllable word troubled him. "He's a good man too," he said suddenly. This new topic seemed to have sobered him up. "When they – they killed that girl, he was upset. I'd be upset if I loved her too. But he can't be a monster if-" Bedivere concentrated hard to bring the sentence together, "if he loved her? Can he?"

The stranger shook his head a dark look on his face. "What did this girl look like?" he asked slowly.

"Oh, she was quite pretty," Bedivere mumbled. "She spoke to me and she was nice."

"But what did she look like?"

"She had – had long dark hair and dark eyes. She scared me. Shewas a monster – that's why we had to kill her."

"And Prince Merlin?" the stranger swallowed.

"He screams a lot," Bedivere confessed. "S'why I'm here. To forget. It – it gets in your head and it won't go away." He slumped onto the table and took another long drink from his flagon. "I hear it all the time. And then I remember the battle. I _killed_ people. D'you know how that feels? We're leaving again soon, s'well. I'm going to have to do it – _again_."

The stranger stood up abruptly. "You should probably go home," he said.

"Where?" Bedivere asked stupidly.

"Home," the stranger sighed. "To your sweetheart if you don't want to go there."

"My sweetheart?" Bedivere remembered his lover, he face sliding into his mind with a small smile. "Eibhlynn," he cried and stood up, too. "I'm going to marry her!"

"You are?" asked the stranger sounding amused now. He gently guided the young knight out of the tavern into the dark and cool night.

Bedivere hesitated. "Oh," he said, slightly disappointed. "I haven't asked her. I think will now!"

"I don't think you should do that," the stranger said. "I'd be willing to bet that if you turned up at her door now, you'd be more likely to get a frying pan around the head than a fiancée."

"Oh," sighed Bedivere and changed direction towards the castle. The stranger hesitated then tapped on a passerby's shoulder.

"Here my friend," he said palming him a few coins, "if you could take my friend Sir Knight here to the castle, it would please me greatly."

The man glanced at the coins and over to the clearly drunk knight who was weaving his way across the road. "No tricks?"

The stranger splayed his hands. "No tricks."

"All right then." The man nodded, took the coins and took off after the knight, clearly gleeful at the easy money.

The stranger smiled. "My thanks," he called after the man and gave a small bow. That man would probably turn the next corner, abandon the knight and take off with the with the money. Hey, the stranger thought, it's the thought that counts. He then hurried around the corner, glad to have finally gotten rid of the troublesome knight.

It was dark in this new alley and he made sure he was completely cast in shadow before he started to mutter a small incantation, focusing on the exact place where he wished to go. He turned on the spot and with a small pop, he disappeared.

There was no trace that he had been there and nobody was any the wiser about the strange man who lived in a local inn with no apparent home of his own. After all, he was just a normal tavern goer that had a very normal life.

He was also very good at his job.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

The stranger's name was in fact Rilden and he was in full time employment by the king as a spy. He and three others had been based at strategic points in both Escetia and Camelot for the last six months, scavenging for any information they could find like mice looking for food. Already he had worked his way around the lower town, the upper castle and had even stayed in the castle for a few weeks, providing valuable information for Caerleon. However, he'd not found it to his taste and had quickly returned to a local inn for the rest of his stay in Camelot.

He reappeared with another small pop in the middle of the throne room of Caerleon Castle. King William broke away from what sounded like a hurried discussion with Lady Hunith. Rilden caught a glimpse of a letter before it was whisked out of sight.

"Sire," he bowed, "Lady Hunith."

The lady still showed her grief in a plain black dress and in the way her hair was tied back from her face with some black cloth. The King however only wore a simple black armband. This was only because of court etiquette, Rilden knew. King's weren't allowed to show their grief so openly.

"What is it?" the King asked, striding forwards urgently.

Rilden hesitated.

"Tell me!" the King shouted, his fists clenched by his sides. Lady Hunith placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Camelot's army is on the move again. They set off in just a few days time. And – Prince Merlin is still being tortured," Rilden shared reluctantly. "The knight I spoke to, he said he screams a lot. He also said... there was a girl with him."

The King looked at him sharply. "A girl?"

"She had dark hair and dark eyes, apparently. The knight said she was actually quite nice but-" Rilden swallowed. "He said she was a monster."

King William froze. He closed his eyes. "Freya."

Nobody spoke. Abruptly, the King wheeled around and punched a pillar.

"Damn!" he cried. "Is she all right? Is she alive?"

Rilden glanced away. "They killed her," he said finally. "She transformed and they killed her."

Hunith gasped, a hand to her mouth as she stumbled back. The King glared furiously at Rilden who cowered under his rage.

"I'm sorry, sire," he said.

"Go!" the King roared. "Out!"

Rilden didn't hesitate. He fled from the room as fast as his legs would carry him.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

The silence after the spy left was huge. It washed over the room and seemed to envelop it utterly and completely. Hunith brought the hand from her mouth and smoothed her dress down nervously. She didn't want to believe it but she knew Rilden would not lie.

"Will," she said softly. She took a few hesitant steps towards the King. "Will, are you listening to me?"

"Why is this happening?" Will whispered hoarsely. "How is it happening?"

Hunith knelt next to him and placed a gentle arm around his shoulders. He leant into the contact and only now she feel his shoulders shaking as he sobbed. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "So, so sorry."

"She was my friend. Me, Merlin and Freya. We were always together, you know?"

Hunith did know. Her son and his friends had been a great source of trouble in the castle for many years. Unlikely companions for a prince, as many people had pointed out to her; a farm boy and a cursed druid girl, yet they were much more his friends than anyone among the court. Freya had also been much more than Merlin's friend... yet that now looked as if it were not to be.

"Look at us now," Will mumbled. "Freya's dead, Merlin's dying and I'm the king of a kingdom that's falling to ruins!"

"That's not true-"

"You know damn well it's true!" Will shouted, turning to face her. "Escetia raids the outlying villages daily, the people are rebelling – even the dragons are restless! Only Merlin could control them anyway," he muttered.

"And Balinor," Hunith said.

"Balinor is dead!"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Will regretted them. Hunith looked as if she had been slapped and her eyes brimmed with tears.

He opened his mouth to apologize. "I'm-"

Hunith slapped him. Hard.

"-sorry," he gasped, clutching his cheek. "What was that for?"

"That," Hunith declared, her voice shaking, "was for insulting my husband and betraying my son! Merlin left you in charge because he thought it was best for the kingdom. I doubt he imagined you falling apart at the faintest sign of trouble."

"I just – didn't think it would be like this." Will stared at the empty stone throne. Since he had been crowned, he had refused to sit in it and had placed a more simple wooden chair beside it.

"What else would it be like?" Hunith asked. "The only reason Merlin would not be on that throne right now was because he was – gone. Did you think he would simply slip away in his sleep?"

"Of course not!"

"Then what are you doing?" Hunith pulled out the letter she had hidden once Rilden appeared. "We have a spy in Camelot who is trusted by Uther himself! There is no reason to be- moping around in our grief when an army marches towards Caerleon at any moment." She dropped her voice. "Will, if you play this right, there will be no possible way that we can lose this war."

"We lost the battle and supposedly that wasn't possible either."

Her voice was shaking, she noticed. "We don't know what happened in that battle and perhaps we never will. But we _can_ make sure it doesn't happen again. This war has cost me my son and my husband's lives. We are _not_ going down without a fight."

Will didn't speak. He picked himself off the floor and took off the crown that was on his head. He placed the simple gold band onto the empty throne.

"I don't deserve it," he stated to Hunith. "Now tell me, how can we trust this Gaius?"

Hunith raised her head. "He's my brother and Merlin's uncle. He even practised magic himself, in the past. We can trust him."

They met each other's eyes. "We'll make preparations," Will said. "If Camelot really does intend to march straight to our door, then they're going to get a fight they hadn't bargained for."

"Good." Hunith smiled weakly. "For Caerleon."

"No," Will said quietly, glancing at the throne. "For Merlin. And God help any Pendragon that crosses my path because if they ever do, I will _not_ be responsible for my actions."

And with that promise, so began preparations for the battle that would decide the fate of not only Camelot and Caerleon, but the whole of Albion.

* * *

_Oh, and the spell translates (from Old English) into: send to her, Lady Hunith of the people.  
_

_Finally, I'm sorry I haven't replied to last chapter's reviews - I simply don't have enough time as I'm sure anyone who has ever studied for GCSEs understands. Next chapter, I'll make sure I do.  
_


	12. Closer To The Edge

**Name: **Taken By The Storm

**Chapter: **Twelve

**Summary: **Three knights. Two enemy princes. One war. The consequences will affect the whole of Albion. "When all is lost, how can you hope?"

**An:** I am the worst author ever. Seriously. I said one week and, well, it's been one month. The worst part is that it _could_ have been done in a week and... it wasn't. I'm sorry. It's here now, although Gwaine and Arthur _still_ want more 'screen time' than is allowed... Also, do you like the new cover image?

Just a** Note: **I have put up a revised version of Chapter 1. It has a bit of backstory and is worth reading before this one. Also, I have put slightly more realistic numbers for the army in this chapter; I have yet to change the figures for Chapter 2. It's also the longest chapter yet, clocking in at 22 pages!

I love it when you review; it makes my day like nothing else. Thank you.

* * *

"Bring him in here… yes, yes, on the table, right there – do you _really_ need to shackle him down? Does he _look_ like he's going to attack me?"

Gaius huffed as the four guards gingerly placed Prince Merlin down on his recently cleared work table. The boy's head lolled to the side as soon as it was left unattended, his eyes firmly shut. _What horrors have you been through?_ Gaius wondered silently, his physician side already noting down the herbs and potions he was going to need.

One of the guards cleared his throat. "We'll be taking shifts in guarding the room," he said. "Two of us at a time. We'll do our best to stay out of your way."

"I need to work in peace," Gaius said pointedly, walking over to a small table in the corner of the room and picking up some bottles. He flipped an open book shut, glancing at the guards to make sure they had not seen the title of the page.

"It's the best we can do – we're dealing with a powerful sorcerer who may wake at any time," the first guard said.

"Does he look dangerous at this current point in time?" Gaius snapped.

"No sir, but with all due respect, we have our orders."

Gaius glanced between them and raised an eyebrow. "Outside," he said. "You can do your job just as well _out_side of this room, or does that contradict your orders too?"

The guards hesitated, swapping glances. The leader, the only one who had spoken so far, licked his lips nervously.

"Fine," he said. "But there will be four of us instead of two."

Gaius nodded his assent, then gave them a look as they didn't move. "Shoo!" he cried.

Reluctantly, the guards exited the room, the door sliding shut behind them. Gaius sighed in relief. He had begun to wonder if he was going to spend the next few days looking over his shoulder.

At least, he mused to himself as he shuffled over to his new patient with a bucket of water and a cloth, they had not seen the heavy tome on his desk. The old book, while not one of magic, was definitely on the other side of the law. It focused specifically on history with long detailed accounts of past kings and their great deeds, including prominent magic figures at the time. However, there was a small section at the back of the book that focused on something much less concrete than the past; the future.

There, he had found the prophecy he had been looking for, unlabelled and hidden at the back. In an ellegant script it spoke of the Once and Future King, of Emrys, Albion and _magic_.

The old physician sat down wearily and dunked the cloth in the water, rubbing it on Merlin's cheek. A flake of dried blood came of easily but revealed more underneath.

It was impossible. For Merlin to be Emrys - and if he was honest with himself, he could see that title fitting the boy all too easily - then Arthur must be the Once and Future King, destined to bring magic back to all of Albion.

For goodness sake, they were talking about Uther Pendragon's _son_!

Gaius rinsed the cloth yet again and closed his eyes briefly to avoid looking at the wound he had just uncovered. Long and deep, it stretched from the hairline above Merlin's left eye to the corner of his mouth. There was no doubt that it would scar.

The surge of guilt that hit him was unexpected though in hindsight it should not have been. He had allowed this to happen; had stood by and watched as his own nephew had been tortured.

He scrubbed the boy's skin harder now, as if by cleaning Merlin would clear his own conscience.

But no. He knew it would not, for the last time he had felt guilt like this, it had been in the Great Purge as he watched friends burn at the stake and did nothing to help. Nothing had helped then and he knew it would not now.

So he carried on washing Merlin's pale skin, inwardly resolving that he would never let this happen again and praying to the gods above that the young prince would make it through - _because if he didn't, then what would become of Albion? _And now he'd managed to convince himself what he had refused to believe just moments before because he needed that hope, he needed that reassurance that maybe, just maybe, it could be all right in the end.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Stone walls didn't make very comfortable back rests. This was Gwaine's profound insight for the day, a thought that came to him as he slumped against one such stone wall in Meradil, a large town near the centre of Escetia.

It had taken him four days to reach here, mostly through rain and it was safe to say that he was thoroughly miserable.

He wasn't homesick. That much he knew, because he'd never felt homesick unless you counted that time after he had just run away from home, aged just thirteen. It was an emotion that served no purpose in his life. He'd not had a permanent home for five years, spending his days travelling and drinking. Occasionally there was a girl involved, but far less often than he would have liked. That was how he lived; always moving, always thinking ahead.

Camelot was a welcome reprieve. A chance to stop, to not have to worry where his next meal was coming from. He'd even - possibly - made some friends.

Damn it all, he was homesick.

A pair of feet stopped in front of him. Heavy boots. Practical for walking, made of well treated leather. No commoner owned boots like that. Gwaine bit back a groan and slowly raised his eyes. Sure enough, the silver shield with a snake coiled within that made up King Cenred's crest was embroidered on the man's crest. This time he let the groan escape.

"Find something offensive?" the knight asked with a sneer.

"Yeah," Gwaine muttered, moving his legs and stirring for the first time in hours. "You."

The knight poked him with an uncomfortably sharp sword. Gwaine flinched and someone snickered. He noticed for the first time another knight, standing a little way back.

"Move on. You're making the place untidy."

Briefly, Gwaine considered fighting them. He hadn't had a good street fight in months, but before he acted, he hesitated. He was tired. Hungry. In a foreign kingdom that was known throughout Albion for being harsh on people who crossed the law.

It wasn't a good idea.

He settled for stumbling against the knight as he got up and coughing loudly into his shoulder. Disgusted, the man pushed him away, muttering something about beggars and diseases while his friend sniggered. Gwaine smiled to himself, shouldered his pack and wandered off.

If he wasn't allowed to stay on the streets then he may as well find a bed for the night - and if that bed so happened to be located in a tavern, then hey, who was Gwaine to deny fate?

The Singing Mermaid was a busy tavern, just outside of the main town. Gwaine weaved between the tables to the bar drunkenly and ordered another tankard of mead, a happy grin on his face. The bar maid handed him the tankard with a wink and for a moment, Gwaine was entranced by her swaying hips. He shook himself and turned back to his table, only to see that it had been occupied by four other people. He grinned to himself and headed over - this could either be the source of a good fight, or more free drinks.

A red head facing Gwaine was talking animatedly, his hands gesturing with every word. He was a good head shorter than the other three but something about his presence said very clearly, 'don't mess with me'.

Gwaine dragged a hand across his forehead, wiping his hair from his face and was about to introduce himself when a single word caught his attention.

Pendragon.

It took a moment for his brain to catch up to speed, but as soon as it did, he remembered he was in Escetia where anything to do with Camelot or the Pendragon name was looked upon as worse than the plague.

Curiosity piqued, he edged behind a convenient pillar and started listening to the conversation intently, slowly sipping his mead.

A new man was talking now, someone who was facing away from Gwaine, wearing a dark cloak that bunched around his shoulders and just touched his black hair. "Pah," he spat. "Uther is so blind I doubt he'd see a trap if it danced in his face with nothing on."

Gwaine frowned. Why did he recognise that voice?

"He did manage to conquer Camelot," said a tall, brown haired man with two days stubble on his chin clearly.

"Yeah, Kieran," said the red head. "And he's kept it!"

Kieran shook his head. "He got lucky," he said darkly.

"Luck?" snorted the red head. "Master Peter would have your hide for that. 'Luck does not exist, it is merely another term for probability," he quoted.

"Yeah, well Master Peter can shut his face," said Kieran venomously. "He's a prat."

Abruptly, Gwaine realised where he recognised him from. He was the knight that had taken offence to him earlier and moved him off the street, the one with the sharp sword. Absent mindedly, he rubbed his side where he had been poked.

So these men were knights? That was interesting, very interesting. Why would Knights of Escetia be talking about Uther Pendragon.

The tall man shook his head with a smile. "There's truth to what he says. After all-"

"We don't need a philosophy lecture, Davyd."

This was the fourth man, the only one who hadn't spoken so far. He sat mainly in the shadow but the scars on his face gleamed in the firelight, silver lines threading delicately across his skin.

"Yeah, let's talk about the battle!" Red said.

Kieran immediately perked up. "When will Camelot reach the battle ground?"

"A week at most," Davyd shrugged. "Why? Are you looking for some entertainment?"

Scar Face chuckled, his eyes glinting. "Kieran just wants to spill some blood."

Kieran gripped something at his side, at what Gwaine could only assume was a sword hilt. "Too right," he muttered. "The sooner Caerleon and Camelot slaughter each other, the sooner we can get moving. No more of this 'keeping quiet'."

"If you call raiding villages 'keeping quiet," Davyd said drily.

Scar Face gave a wolfish grin.

"They've lasted a long time," he said. "I had my money on Caerleon for the first battle but something obviously went wrong. I didn't think there would _be_ a second battle."

"It's a bloody nuisance," Kieran growled, banging a fist on the table. "If they'd just kill each other, we can march in and kill everyone who's left."

"And claim our land!" Red exclaimed. "How does Lord of Cadoc sound?"

Gwaine heard no more. He was backing away slowly, mind not quite comprehending what he had just heard. Kieran's words kept repeating in his head, spinning round and round. He stumbled over an uneven flag stone and grabbed a chair to right himself. His mead wasn't so lucky and the tankard bounced on the floor once before rolling to a stop.

"Oi! You!"

Kieran had turned and was staring at him with a strange smile that sent a shiver up Gwaine's spine. Slowly, Gwaine stood up, the tankard clutched in his hand.

"Yes?"

"Are you trying to annoy me today?"

"Sorry," Gwaine fired back. "It just comes naturally."

Kieran sneered, his hand readjusting itself on his sword hilt.

"What are you doing?" Red asked, glancing between the two. "He doesn't matter, leave him be."

"Oh, he matters," Kieran chuckled.

There was a cold feeling in the pit of Gwaine's stomach, telling him that this was the point at which he _really_ should be running, or at least doing something but he couldn't move, couldn't move a muscle, could only stare into Kieran's eyes, seeing the cruelty hidden within.

Davyd was the one who finally answered Red.

"It matters," he said, "because he has just overheard every single word we've just said.

Gwaine finally broken eye contact with Kieran and finally did what he should have done roughly five minutes ago.

He ran.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Will stood at the top of the steps of the main entrance to the castle, the wind lightly playing with his hair, tousling it about while his blue cloak entangled itself around his legs. On his right, Hunith's regal dress hung off her frame, hinting at just how much weight she had lost within the last couple of weeks. Her hair was braided down her back to keep it out of the way but it emphasised her hollowed out cheeks and the creases that were beginning to be permanent on her forehead, riling Will's anger up once more as he remembered his younger days as a simple farm boy and Hunith trailing behind, always with a smile on her face.

To his left was a woman who had barely been seen in Caerleon before, a High Priestess of the Druids but also leader of the Nine Clans. She was tall, with the long blonde hair of a natural born princess. Bright blue eyes that could change from sparkling laughter to steely determination within a second were set in a stern face that wold spark legends for years to come.

Without High Priestess Miriam, the last few days would have been much harder as he negotiated with the druids, the dragons and other creatures that hadn't been seen in the city for decades. If not for her, he certainly wouldn't be standing here right now; waiting.

"Excuse me, sire."

Will turned. A young servant boy stood hesitantly behind him, holding some papers.

"The reports on the latest attacks on the eastern border," the boy mumbled.

Will took the top one and scanned it hurriedly. It spoke of the same the others had for the last week or so. Raiders had been attacking the outer villages, pillaging and stealing. His eyes caught on the name of the village that been attacked.

"Isca," he ground out, frustrated, half turning to Hunith. "Why would raiders attack Isca? They don't even grow crops!"

Hunith frowned and took the report from him, reading quickly. "It says here that they all wore armour bearing the crest of Escetia."

Will grimaced. "Great," he muttered. "Just what we need on the brink of battle. What's that slimy snake of a king up to now?"

Hunith sent him a warning look and he heaved a great sigh, adjusting the simple crown on his head with one hand. It was not the traditional crown of Caerleon but it was the only one that Will would allow himself to wear. "That crown isn't mine," he would say when confronted with the traditional heavy gold circlet. "It's Merlin's." Nobody dared to contradict him.

"Take these reports to my chambers," he told the servant. "I'll review them later."

The servant scurried off obediently without a word. Will turned back to the courtyard, tapping his foot impatiently. "How long should it take them to arrive?" he asked.

"Precisely two minutes," Miriam answered without hesitation.

"What about the druids? They don't have much time."

"A day or two - four at the most."

"Four?" Will exclaimed. "Damn it. Negotiations took far too long, they'll be too late."

"Language," Hunith tutted beside him. "You _know_ they can't come here directly. They would use all of their energy reserves and be of absolutely no use in the battle - how many times has Merlin told you that?"

"Not enough," he muttered darkly, wishing that his friend was here once more. He snuck a glance at Miriam and saw her gazing at the courtyard gateway, giving no clue as to if she was paying attention or not.

Will glanced at the sun to check the time and at that exact moment, there was a loud pop. Immediately he looked towards the source of the noise but black blobs swam across his vision, temporarily obscuring his sight. He blinked and a moment later they were gone, allowing him to see the creature standing in the middle of the courtyard for the first time.

She was quite tall for her kind, the tip of her head easily matching the top of his shoulder. She had black hair that was tied in a bun at the base of her neck and long eyelashes that framed her unusually large, green eyes. If he peered closer, he could see the tapered points of her ears that were much longer than a normal humans.

She was, quite clearly, an elf.

More importantly, she was quite clearly _one_ elf.

Will opened his mouth, most likely to say something that he would regret, but Miriam sent him a sharp shock with a quietly muttered word and a flash of gold and his mouth clicked shut as he hissed quietly through his teeth. "What did you do that for?" he muttered quietly.

"Does it matter?" Hunith hissed. "Go and greet her."

Will rearranged his face into a more welcoming expression and stepped forwards, coming down the steps and kneeling on one knee in front of the elf.

"My lady," he said, "I am humbled to be in your presence. Thank you for coming in these troubled times."

The elf dipped into a small curtsy, a movement that she seemed to be unfamiliar with. "It is a pleasure to be here," she said in a clear voice. "I am sorry to have come so late."

"Not as late as some," Will couldn't help but mumble, thinking of the druids. The elf smiled knowingly.

"I'm not talking about the war," she said. "My brothers will arrive tomorrow, equipped for the battle and to help you but that is not my task."

"Then what is your task?"

"Perhaps I should explain where _all_ of the present company can hear us?" she suggested pointedly. Will flushed, having completely forgotten about Hunith and Miriam. He led the elf over to the two woman and said, "High Priestess Miriam, Lady Hunith, this is Lady…" Here, he faltered, realising for the first time that elf hadn't introduced herself.

"Alyss," the elf said, saving him from embarrassment.

The women all exchanged greetings and a moment later, Miriam probed his mind. _Where are the others? _she asked.

_Arriving tomorrow apparently, _Will replied, _but I wouldn't hold your breath. She's not here for the battle and she only mentioned her 'brothers' coming._

Above Alyss' head, Miriam raised an eyebrow.

"Lady Alyss," Will said out loud, "now that we are all acquainted, it would be most appreciated if you could explain what your task is."

The elf smiled. "A long time ago," she started, "a prophecy was made. A creature of old, much older than the dragons or us, the elves, foretold that one day, two men would join together to unite all of Albion under one ruler."

Will knew the prophecy. How could he not, when he lived in Caerleon, when he lived for the day that there would be no war and magic would be free?

"Over the years, the prophecy was retold again and again until the two men, Emrys and the Once and Future King became two of the most popular figures of legend. Nobody knew when they would fulfill the prophecy or even when they would be born except that it would be in the midst of a time of change and desperation."

Alyss looked at each of them, her large eyes serious and dark. "That time is now."

Will caught his breath. "Then who are they? Where is Emrys, where is the Once And Future King?"

"Emrys is currently in no position to help," Alyss said, "and while the Once and Future King is, he does not wish to."

"What do you mean?" Hunith cried. "Emrys is the most powerful warlock in the history of Albion!"

"Emrys is unable to help because he has only just returned from the brink of death and even now is not guaranteed to live."

Alyss looked straight into Will's eyes as she said this and suddenly, he understood. He didn't know how he knew - maybe Alyss had used some subtly magic to plant the information in his mind or maybe he had known all along - but the thought stayed in his mind just as clearly as if he was staring a page with words written on.

Merlin is Emrys.

He must have said the words out loud because Hunith stiffened next to him and Miriam's mouth fell half open, the most uncomposed he had ever seen her. Alyss said nothing, but she didn't need to.

"But - if Merlin is Emrys," Hunith stumbled, "then the Once and Future King…"

"Is Arthur Pendragon."

Will shook his head. No. There was no way that could be possible. Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King? Merlin and Arthur, supposed to unite Albion , together?

"You still haven't explained why you're here," Will said, his throat dry.

"I'm here because every once in a while, a prophecy goes wrong," Alyss said slowly. "The last time that happened was nearly 100 years ago."

Will remembered one of his history lessons, over eight years ago. He had been sat next to Merlin listening to Leonard intently as he described a massacre that spanned two months; a foretold hero who went bad - and then from bad to worse. Over 20,000 people had died. Will felt the blood drain from his face. "And Merlin - his prophecy has gone wrong?"

"No," Alyss said firmly. "Not yet."

"I don't understand," Hunith whispered.

The elf took a look at each one of them; from Will's shocked expression, to Hunith's obvious fright and last of all to Miriam who still hadn't said a word. She smiled gently and said, "Let us walk."

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

The houses blurred past as Gwaine's feet slapped loudly against the cobbled street, faster and faster in short, desperate movements. A glance over his shoulder to tell him what he already knew; they were close, too close for comfort. He turned sharply right and skidded into a wooden barrel, sending it skittering into the street where it rolled to a stop. He swore loudly and pushed off once more.

This was ridiculous, all he had done was overheard a couple of words in a tavern but he had no time to think because he had to focus on simply moving, on getting away. A large three story house loomed up in front. Too late, Gwaine realised it was a dead end.

Another stolen glance behind; Red was already halfway down the street and there was nowhere to run.

Wait, there was door pulled to, not quite shut, just to the side of the house. Gwaine sprinted the last few steps and wrenched it open, yanking it shut as he stumbled into a small alley. No time to think, no time to hesitate; run, just run.

"Where's he gone?"

That had to be Kieran. There was no answer, but Red must have pointed because a moment later the door was battered open. Where did this alley go? Surely it lead somewhere, why would it exist for any other reason?

His foot connected with something solid on the ground and he went flying forwards, hitting the dirt harshly, rolling up straight away and running, running, running.

Someone yelled behind him in pain as they fell in the same trap. Gwaine bared his teeth in a half grimace, half smile.

The alley turned suddenly, then emerged onto a patch of grass. A patch of light from a nearby house lit up a bench upon which lay several swords, most of which looked only half forged. Gwaine grabbed the nearest one and swung it once. It would do.

He glanced up just in time to see Kieran emerge into the light, a feral smile on his face and sword raised high.

"I've found him!" he yelled.

Gwaine backed up a couple of steps and readied his stance, preparing for the oncoming fight. His foot knocked into the bench and it toppled over, the swords falling together with a loud clatter. Someone from the house shrieked.

_So much for lying low, _Gwaine thought as Kieran swung an overhead strike and raised his sword to block. The two met with a loud screech and the fight began.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Bedivere gazed out of the window and down at Camelot's courtyard directly below, watching harried servants scurry about with their arms full of newly polished armour, recently packed food and tent canvas.

He sighed, long and low.

This was it. Tomorrow morning, he would join ranks with five thousand other men, all prepped for battle. Tomorrow, he would ride out of the city for what might be the last time. Tomorrow, he rode for war. And to put it frankly, he was scared.

Honour and glory; they were why he had signed up for the Knights of Camelot. Justice, too. Training with Arthur had been hard but worth it; his swordsmanship had improved greatly. Attending feasts in the castle had been fun, as had striding though the lower towns on patrol, the peasants staring as he passed.

War, though, had been the complete opposite of those things. It had been embarrassing, humiliating, crushing, exhilarating and terrifying, all at the same time.

He stood now, frozen and unable to look away from the steadily darkening sky. A door had dropped away in his stomach allowing his fear to creep in until it had taken over every part of his body like a disease that would leave him paralysed.

He remembered thrusting his sword through a man pleading for his life; watching a friend fall like a marionette that's strings had been cut, eyes lifeless; watching a fireball race towards him and being unable to move until he was pushed out the way; talking to the prisoners, Merlin and Freya, unaware that just a few days later, one of them would be dead.

His eyes were burning. Squeezing them shut, he tried to banish the images.

Maybe it was this last thought, of Merlin and Freya, of their love and her death that made him do what he did next. Maybe it was the fear.

He tore himself away from the window and strode to the chest of drawers next to his bed. His movements became faster and faster until he was frantically searching through the draws, his nails scratching the wood, desperation lending him straight. Moments later, he produced a ring.

It was simple. A plain gold band with a small amethyst set into it's centre. It had been the most Bedivere could afford when he commissioned it two weeks ago for a very specific purpose.

Two weeks, he'd thought to himself as he held it for the first time, merely five days ago. Give it two weeks, then you'll be ready.

He didn't have two weeks.

Bedivere placed the ring into his pocket and without pausing to tidy the drawers again, strode from the room, a destination set firmly in his mind. Moving faster than was normally reasonable at this time of night he went down the corridor, down the stairs, down another flight and into the courtyard he'd been looking down upon just minutes before. His gait turned into a lope as he crossed to the gates, so fixated on where he was going that he didn't notice the servant girl until they collided. He staggered to the side and winced.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to - I'm in such a hurry - not that you aren't, of course - and Morgana was upset and I just wanted to get the flowers to her-"

Bedivere glanced at the young woman he'd run into. Her long dark curls, dark skin and darks eyes instantly identified her as Lady Morgana's maid. "It's all right," he said quickly, bending down to pick up her basket which had fallen to the ground. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"No, it's my fault, I'm really sorry, I hope I didn't hurt you!"

"Gwen, isn't it?" he asked. She nodded. "It's fine. In fact…" He glanced in the basket. It was full of flowers that the maid had obviously just collected.

"You'd like one?" Gwen asked hesitantly.

"Yes." Bedivere shifted, suddenly awkward. "My sweetheart…"

Gwen smiled at him and took the basket. "You'll be wanting one of these then," she said, pulling out a red flower. "It's a carnation. Their supposed to be romantic."

"Thank you." Bedivere took the flower gratefully, smiling at the servant girl and moved off again, heading towards the lower town.

"Good luck!" Gwen called after him.

He found Eihblyn at her home, washing dishes in the front room. Bedivere paused in the street, watching through the window as she worked peacefully, her blonde hair tied back out of her face. The fear he had felt so strongly earlier seemed to have disappeared, held back behind a dam.

With a deep breath, he knocked on the door and waited expectantly. Sure enough, it opened to reveal Eibhlyn just a moment later.

"Bedivere," she cried and a smile split across her face. "I didn't think you'd come."

Bedivere twisted his hands awkwardly behind his back, still clutching the flower. "I didn't think I'd come either," he confessed.

Eihblynn half frowned, half smiled before moving out of the way. "What am I doing?" she laughed, embarrassed. "Come on in."

"I'd rather not," Bedivere said. He flushed. "I mean, there's something I'd like to do first."

Slowly, he withdrew his hands from behind his back and handed her the flower. Eihblyn took it carefully and smelt it.

"It's beautiful."

Bedivere took another deep breath, conscious of the way she was looking at him with that expression of delight. Blood was rushing through his ears. His heart was beating as if he had just run five miles. He knelt down on one knee.

"Eibhlyn," he said seriously. "When I was away - in Caerleon - I thought I was going to die, and when I didn't, I came to realise a few things. One, I love your cooking. But more importantly, I love you."

He hesitated. Eibhlyn was gazing at him with wide eyes and parted lips, waiting.

"And - and I'd love for you to be my wife," he said in a rush. "Will you marry me?"

Suddenly, everything was silent. Her eyes went suspiciously bright and Bedivere had the horrible feeling that he'd just made her cry.

"Yes!" Eibhlyn cried and now she really was crying – great big tears rolling down her face that Bedivere could only hope was from happiness. "I love you too!"

She stepped into his arms and then they were clinging to each other tightly, clutching each other as if they'd never let go. He breathed in her scent, listening as she repeated her answer, yes, again and again, his heart so full of happiness he thought it might break.

Finally, he held her at arm's length and took her hand. Slowly, gently, he slid the ring onto her finger, admiring how it looked. It was only now that he looked up and saw Eibhlyn's mother standing in the doorway, her grey hair falling around her face, smiling gently.

For a moment, he felt embarrassed - but then Eihblyn's lips found his and he found that, at that moment, he didn't particularly care.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

The tunnels underneath the castle were the one place Arthur had never explored. "There are dangerous things down there," his father had told him sternly at a young age. "Things from before the purge."

This warning had always been enough to keep him away - he'd heard the stories, after all. The woman who had been turned into a toad, the man who was blinded for life. Even as he grew older, his curiosity growing to match, he didn't venture any closer; that catacombs were out of bounds and that was that.

None of this explained why he had chosen tonight of all nights to come down here. After all, he was Crown Prince of Camelot, on the eve of battle. The answer was in fact, quite strange.

The voice had first come to him about an hour before; he had been giving his manservant some more jobs to complete, despite how tired and weary he looked. It had been loud and sudden, a voice that sounded irritated calling his name.

"What was that?" he had asked.

His servant looked confused. "What was what, sire?"

"That noise – someone was calling me."

It happened again at that moment, so loud that Arthur literally jumped in the air; _Arthur!_

"There, did you hear it?"

"No, sire. I'm sorry, sire." The poor boy looked confused and upset. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Of course I'm feeling all right!" Arthur snapped. "Fine. Do those jobs and you're dismissed for the night." His manservant hesitated for a moment, then, at a glare from Arthur, fled the room.

Arthur!

"All right, all right," Arthur muttered. "I hear you." The thought struck him that it was probably a bad sign he was hearing a voice that no one else could and also that he was replying to it.

_Am I going mad?_ He thought. No. He was still thinking clearly, rationally. He couldn't be going mad. Could he?

Arthur!

The voice sounded more irritated than ever and this time, Arthur felt a slight push. He took a step forwards.

Magic! That is what this must be – magic. And that must mean – Merlin!

Damn. Arthur already knew that the foreign prince had no idea what he was doing with his powers although thankfully, since the boy had been under Gaius' care, the visions had gradually disappeared until now, he only got one about once a day.

Arthur!

Well, one thing was certain; he would never be able to get to sleep like this. He felt another push and involuntarily took a step forwards. Gaius, he thought. That was where he should go. He could get a sleeping potion, see if Merlin really was the cause behind this sudden voice (_well, who else could it be?_ a small voice in the back of his voice whispered) and find out if Gaius had had a breakthrough in his research.

With this plan set firmly in his mind, he strode out of his chambers, ignoring the guards posted outside his door and turned-

Left, away from Gaius' chambers.

What? But suddenly, Arthur didn't want to go and see Gaius. Instead, he wanted to go down into the catacombs – _wasn't that where he'd planned to go anyway? - _wanted to go speak to-

Arthur!

Who did he want to speak to? The name had slipped from his mind. It was certainly not Gaius; why would he want to speak to the physician at this time of night? But he did need to go into the tunnels beneath Camelot. That much was certain.

And so it was that he found himself in the catacombs, torch in hand, for the first time in his life.

His breath misted in front of him constantly and he drew his jacket around his body, trying to keep the heat in. Even the torch he held aloft in his right hand did little good. He was too deep, too far underground.

Too soon (or was that far too late?) he arrived at the last turning, the voice still echoing in his head. Somehow, Arthur knew that this was it; whatever it was that had called him down here was around this corner (but he _knew _what was down here already, didn't he?).

He turned the corner. And stopped.

No. This could not be right. This could not be possible. He must be mistaken, his eyes must be deceiving because he could not be seeing what he was seeing. This could not be happening.

And this time, the voice calling him was not inside his head, but came from the thing, the monster in front of him.

"Arthur!"

And finally, Arthur understood why his father had forbidden him from ever coming into the catacombs. He understood what people meant when they whispered in dark corners about the monster underneath Camelot. He understood why his father had never told him what happened to to the beast Balinor had captured for them.

He understood, finally, and he wished he didn't.

Because in front of him, larger than life, in all it's glory, _it_ stood, staring at him with large, knowledgeable eyes.

A dragon.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

It was dark. Dark and blurry. Dark, blurry and _painful_.

Those were Gwaine's first thoughts as he stirred, a hand automatically going to his head to feel the damage that must be the cause of his stinking headache.

A large bump, a bit of blood, but hopefully nothing that would last.

_Now,_ Gwain thought to himself, _what have I done to earn it _this _time?_

"You're awake. Finally."

Ah. That complicated things a bit. Had he got into another tavern brawl? Maybe, but he usually stayed on his own after those occasions unless, of course, he was with a woman. That would be nice but unfortunately, that voice was most definitely male.

He blinked, once, twice, and focused on the blurry object in front of him. It was a man. He looked to be quite tall, had short brown hair and was looking at him with something between amusement and a sneer.

Suddenly, the memories came flying back to him; The Singing Mermaid, the knights, listening in, getting caught, running, fighting – he could remember the final blow coming in but being powerless to stop it. Then blackness.

He groaned. Loudly.

Davyd smiled. "Ah, I see you remember me."

"Where am I?" Gwaine scowled as he sat up. "Why am I still alive?"

"Good questions." Davyd looked at him calculatingly. "I'm sure you'll understand why I can't answer."

"What? Because of your master plan to take over Camelot and Caerleon?" Gwaine spat.

The knight laughed. "It's not my plan," he said. "It's much bigger than just me."

"So you admit it's happening then?"

"There's no point hiding it - I already know you overheard us."

Gwaine slumped against the wall, wishing Davyd would at least blink instead of just staring. "I have two very important questions," he said finally, "the first of which is what happens now?"

Davyd smiled. "What happens now is that we go to King Cenred."

"And why is that?" Gwaine asked with the feeling that he really didn't want to know.

"Because he will then decide if we kill you - or if we can make you useful."

_Who'd have known?_ Gwaine thought with a small amount of humour, repressing a shudder at the implication of those words. _I was right._

"What was your second question?" Davyd asked with narrowed eyes.

"Ah. Yes." Gwaine shook his hair out of his face. "This is very important." He leant forwards. "Where the _heck_ is my hip flask?"

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

The last time Arthur had seen this dragon had been when Balinor was still alive, when Uther was still sounding reasonable, before war was declared and before any of this mess had begun.

It was bigger than he remembered; certainly bigger than those at Caerleon. He had heard of Dragon Lords riding dragons before now, but however they did it, they could not have sat on the beasts' backs. Looking at the one in front of him, Arthur could see that it was wider than he was tall.

He suddenly felt very small.

"Arthur Pendragon. You have come to me at last."

It occurred to him that he should be scared; terrified, even. Maybe it was the dragon's influence – the same that had brought him down here – keeping him calm, but the first words out of his mouth were, "I demand to know why you brought me down here!"

The dragon sighed. "So impatient," he murmured. "You are here, young one, because you have a great destiny. In time, you shall come to be one of the greatest King's that ever lived."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"King of all Albion; the Once and Future King." The dragon gave what looked like it could be a smile, his large amber eyes never once leaving Arthur's. "And by your side; Emrys."

The name stirred a memory. Arthur squinted slightly, trying to remember. That was it! He'd been in Gaius' chambers, checking on his research and he'd seen the name written in an elegant script as the title of one of the pages. "Who's Emrys?" he asked.

The dragon hummed. "You know him by another name, young one, but know him you do. Already, the pieces are coming together."

"What do you mean?" Arthur shouted, frustrated. "What pieces? Who is he?"

"You are two sides of the same coin. If you ever want to reach peace you must work with him, not against him."

"What do you mean? Tell me!"

But the dragon was settling on it's hindquarters, ruffling it's wings. "You must release your prejudices, Pendragon, if this was is ever to end."

With a powerful push of his hind legs that shook the floor Arthur stood on, the dragon lifted itself into the air, it's chain clanking loudly.

"Who is Emrys?" Arthur yelled. "What prejudices?"

But it was too late. With chuckles that rebounded against the cavern walls, the dragon had flown off.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

It was ironic, really, that the on one of the darkest days of her life, the day dawned bright and sunny with hardly a cloud in sight. It was because of this that there was a bitter twist to Morgana's lips as she surveyed the lines of soldiers in front of her, knights with their bright red cloaks billowing about in the slight breeze.

Gwen was stood slightly behind her, holding the basket of flowers for later. They both tried to ignore the wailing family's on the other side of the courtyard and the family's beginning to line the streets, knowing the pain they'd see on each face, that one question echoed by every single person but never once spoken out loud. _How many will come home this time?_

The only time Morgana spoke was when she said to Gwen, "You should sit down."

But the young woman shook her head.

"I'll wait with you, milady."

It was well past sunrise when Arthur came down the steps. He had donned all his armour except for his helmet, allowing Morgana to see the pinched and tired look on his face. Though she knew that he had retired to his bed chambers quite early the previous evening, she could not blame him for not sleeping well.

"Morgana," he sighed when he saw her and she could just see the reprimand in his eyes for waiting here for him.

She raised her head and said clearly, "I came to say goodbye."

They half stared, half glared at each other for a moment more and then Arthur sagged. "I know," he whispered and with a sudden movement, hugged her fiercely. She returned the favour and rested her head on this shoulder.

"I don't want you to go," she murmured, the first hint of real panic coming through her voice.

"I know."

They stood there, wrapped in each other's arms for a long time. More and more soldiers joined the ranks and sun rose higher in the sky. Finally, Arthur gently unwrapped himself and glanced towards the army waiting for his command.

"I need to go," he said.

Morgana nodded and fumbled at her sleeve, prising a handkerchief from underneath - a normal one this time. "Take this," she said. "Please."

Arthur took it and tied it to his belt, looking her in the eye seriously. "I'll be back," he promised, then turned and left.

And if Morgana had to wipe a tear from her face, nobody noticed.

She waited longer still for the oldest member of the Pendragon family who appeared at the ninth bell, striding from the castle with a frown set firmly in place. Unusually, it was him that he wanted to see the most - it was for him that she had waited in the courtyard in the first place, although she'd never admit it.

"Morgana," he said in surprise once he saw her. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to say goodbye," she said.

"Oh my child." Uther reached out and tucked a strand of stray hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger. "We _will_ come back."

"Yes, but how many of you?" Morgana cried and gestured to the army spread out before them.

Uther's hand closed into a fist. "We _will_ come back," he repeated and Morgana turned away bitterly.

"Do you even care?" she asked. "These people have family's – brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers. People that half of them will likely never see again!"

"Morgana," Uther snapped.

"I just don't want you to go," Morgana whispered, her mind flashing to her dream last night against her will. "Bad things will happen."

"This is war," Uther thundered. "Bad things _always_ happen!"

He turned away and a servant came forwards with his horse, oblivious to his ward as her expression turned from one of panic to anger.

"Fine," Morgana said shrilly. "But I told you! I told you!"

Uther mounted his horse swiftly and didn't answer. This, if anything, seemed to fuel Morgana's anger more. What good was it, trying to warn him, if he wouldn't listen?

"You _will_ regret this," she said with fire in her eyes. Their eyes met briefly, then Uther wheeled his horse round and spurred him out of the courtyard.

Morgana watched him go.

"Milady," Gwen said hesitantly. "Should we go?"

"Yes," Morgana said at once. "We should."

And both hitched their skirts up and ran, Gwen's basket of flowers bouncing by her side. Hair flew back in the wind; stares followed them throughout the city but they didn't stop until they reached the main gates and joined the end of the family's lining the streets. There they waited once again, this time for the procession to appear.

Uther and Arthur lead the procession with impassive faces, totally ignoring the flowers that were being thrown on the ground in front of them. How could they be like that, Morgana wondered, when this might very well be the last time saw Camelot?

She saw a little girl run forwards and almost into the procession; she held some flowers up to one of the older knights who took them gratefully. Her father, Morgana realised.

She took some flowers of her own from the basket Gwen held and waited for Arthur. As he passed, she held the flowers out and he hesitated before taking them, his stony mask cracking for just a second; and she saw the pain and uncertainty in his eyes.

She glanced at Uther once more as she stepped back. It was harder to stay angry at him now that her anger had cooled some and all she could see in her mind's eye was the sword as it swung to deal the final blow; their eyes met once more and her silent promise echoed in both of their ears.

_You _will _regret this._


	13. The Rising Tide

**Name: **Taken By The Storm

**Chapter:** Thirteen

**Summary:  
**

**An: **Hello all. I don't know what to say... it's been two months. However, there is some good news; I know how many chapters there are left in this story and I've already written bits of each - which means that, hopefully, the next few chapters shall come quicker. Unfortunately, this chapter hasn't been edited much, but I thought that I owed you something at least. So here it is.

I hope you enjoy the chapter, and, as always, please read and review.

* * *

The hot blistering sun beat down relentlessly, leaving Arthur to wonder whether it was a magic trick. Sweat trickled down his spine until it reached his trousers where it was soaked up. Two weeks; two weeks of this unnatural weather that had plagued them since they had left Camelot. Each day, at least one person had succumbed to heat stroke and four people had been buried by the wayside. All for this.

He was standing on the brow of a hill, surveying the land before him that had been chosen for battle. Long and flat, there was not another hill within a six league radius. The grass had been overtaken with reeds in boggy places and easily reached Arthur's knees, if not his midriff. It was not ideal - but it would do.

"Sire?"

He turned around to face Sir Leon, the knight who had been nominated to disturb him. "Yes?" he asked shortly.

"The men are requesting that they make camp before the sun claims another victim."

"Do it. We need as many people as we can lay our hands on without them dropping dead along the way."

If Arthur's cold tone bothered Leon, it didn't show. It was true though; Camelot's great army had fallen to an army half the size and now they had even less people than they had to begin with. At every town and village along the way, recruitment stations had been held for the people to sign up. Their number had increased by about nine hundred, but Arthur still didn't think it was enough.

Sir Leon was still hovering by his shoulder.

"What is it?" Arthur snapped.

"The King has requested you dine with him tonight to prepare for negotiations."

Arthur's mouth tightened and he turned away. "I'll be there," he dismissed, barely noticing as Leon hesitated before walking away, presumably to tell Uther that his son had accepted his 'request'.

It was sick.

He could see Caerleon only four leagues away. If he squinted closely, he could see tiny stick figures walking around the city. If they looked up, if they looked across the expanse of green, empty land, then their eyes wouldn't be able to help but land on Camelot's army. How would it feel, Arthur wondered, to know that any day, that army was about to descend upon your home, cold and merciless?

For a brief moment, he felt pity for the people of Caerleon. Then he remembered finding an unidentifiable corpse in the fallen dragon's mouth and anger filled him. They deserved whatever they got.

He turned away and went to his tent to prepare.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Twenty three.

Twenty four.

Twenty five.

Gwaine counted the steps as he was manhandled down the staircase, the cloth tied around his eyes itching uncontrollably. He had a guard on each arm, clutching him with a steel grip, two more guards following behind with swords poking against his back. Apparently they didn't appreciate it when a stranger knocked out four of their own.

"Are we there yet?" he mumbled around the second cloth, this one in his mouth.

Nobody answered. Probably because the only thing that had come out was an unintelligible mumble.

Finally, they reached the bottom and turned down a corridor. After a couple more turns and the telling squeak of a cell door being opened, Gwaine was thrown roughly to the floor. He rolled with the fall but by the time his bound hands had managed to tear off the blindfold, the door had been locked and the guards had disappeared. He slumped against the wall in resignation - and that was when he saw the man staring at him.

It was hard to tell as he was sitting down, but he was at least a head shorter than Gwaine. He had wild, nut brown hair that was tied back. His chin held what was obviously more than just a stubble but less than a beard, as if the man been here for a while. He was looking at Gwaine like he was impressed by something.

"What poor sod did you manage to annoy then?" he asked in a lilting Welsh accent.

"Too many to count," Gwaine replied with an easy grin. "You?"

"Gave our dearly beloved king a black eye and a split lip. Not sure he liked that."

Gwaine laughed. "Gwaine," he introduced and stuck out his hand.

"Cadeth, at your service."

They shook and Gwaine appraised his new acquaintance, eyeing his muscles that had obviously been earnt from more than plowing the field and the clothing that was made of a finer material than a peasant's. He didn't comment. Instead, he glanced around the cell. The walls were made of great big blocks of stone and the door was solid oak with sturdy looking hinges and lock.

"Where abouts are we?"

"Underneath the left wing of the castle. There's no way out from here without going through the guardroom, if that's what you're thinking. It would be suicide."

Gwaine raised an eyebrow. "You know this place well, then?"

"Yes," Cadeth said, clenching his jaw with a look in his eye that Gwaine couldn't decipher. "But you should know that you won't be here long; Cenred doesn't play with his food for long. The last person was here for a day."

"How long have you been here for?" Gwaine asked.

Cadeth shrugged. "A while. Cenred hasn't decided what to do with me."

Gwaine nodded and leant against the cool stone wall, thoughtful, all too aware that his cell mate was being purposely vague. Mind you, it wasn't as if he himself was being exactly forthcoming with information. Still, it bothered him. There was something about Cadeth that he couldn't put his finger on. It was in the way he joked with the humour never quite reaching his eyes; the way he sat with slumped shoulders as if he was resigned to whatever fate decided to deal him.

He was brought abruptly out of his thoughts by hurried footsteps echoing down the passage outside. A key scraped the lock and the door swung open with a reluctant creak to reveal four guards with grim faces. "You," said one, looking pointedly at Gwaine. "Come here."

Cautiously, Gwaine stood up, rolling his shoulders to relax the muscles and stepped forwards. His wrists were grabbed roughly and rope was wound tightly around them until he had lost all feeling in his fingers. He sent a glance at Cadeth who seemed more resigned than ever.

"Enjoy your freedom," the welsh man said in farewell.

One of the guards laughed. "This one? Freedom? He'll be lucky if he gets away with ten lashes in the main square."

Gwaine paled. A flogging had never crossed his mind because, in Camelot, although it wasn't illegal, such a harsh punishment was barely used, reserved mainly for deserters of the army. It would be just like Cenred to 'play' with him, as Cadeth put it, before making his mind up.

Someone pushed him roughly and then he was travelling through the cells, back up the stairs and through winding corridors that he would never be able to remember. Great, oak doors opened silently to reveal Cenred, clad in leather, eating an apple. Gwaine was pushed forwards again and he fell to his knees in front of the infamous king.

"Hello Cenred," he sneered. He was rewarded with a sharp backhand for his troubled.

"This is him?" Cenred asked, glancing over to a man hidden behind a pillar in the corner of the hall; Kieran. Gwaine's lip curled in distaste.

Kieran nodded. "He overheard everything."

Cenred appraised him, his stringy hair covering half of his face in what was surely meant to be a dramatic effect. He took another bite of the apple, crunching noisily. "You're a bit of a trouble, aren't you," he said slowly. "Where abouts are you from, boy?"

Boy my foot, Gwaine thought angrily. "Camelot and proud of it."

"Camelot, eh? What's a bright young man like you doing there? Surely not fighting in the war?"

As he spoke, Cenred got up and moved closer to Gwaine, crouching down so that they were at eye level. His breath smelt of garlic. Gwaine grimaced and spat at him.

"That's exactly what I was doing," he hissed, "fighting against scumbags like you."

Cenred recoiled and stood up sharply. He made a signal to the guards and they forcefully took hold of his arms. "Determined, I see. Well then. We'll see how long that lasts in tomorrow's entertainment in the arena against my best fighting man… and if you survive that, then I'll warn my executioner that he has a job two nights from now."

"Can't find a use for me then in you're slimy plan of cold blooded slaughter?"

"Not for commoners like you, no. Take him away."

The guards started to drag Gwaine away and he turned to look at Kieran. The slimy mongrel was smirking. Gwaine was glad when the doors shut his face from view. However, as much as he wanted to entertain himself with thinking up new names for the warthog, he had other things he needed to focus on; while he was certain that he could best Cenred's man in a duel - after all, he had bested _Arthur_ before now and he was said to be the best fighter in the whole kingdom - the executioner's axe was not something he could best with some fancy footwork.

Ah. There were the stairs again. His feet bumped down them step by step, powerless to stop it.

What he needed to do was to escape. _Oh, what a bright idea, _said a voice in his head, _like I hadn't thought of that one before._ The trick was to do it now. While he was in the cell, there was no way he would be able get out; the weak point here was the guards. They were passing cell doors now. He didn't have long.

Three more steps. Two more. One.

Gwaine snapped his head to the side, bashing one guard hard. He wrenched his arm from the other and kicked out, hitting the man's knee, effectively disabling him. Blinking to clear his eyes from reflex tears, he whirled around to face the first guard, only just dodging a well aimed punch. He eyed his target, then put all his force into his leg and lashed out at the guard's stomach. There was a tense moment when he wasn't sure he'd used enough power, but then the guard crumpled to the floor, his eyes rolling up into his head.

Gwaine lowered himself to the floor and edged himself close to the two guards. His hands were still bound by thick rope and there was no way he'd be able to get out alive if he didn't get it off. The first guard's sword was half drawn and Gwaine rested his wrists as close as he dared, then started to saw quickly. It wouldn't be long until the two guards were found missing and he needed to be long gone by the time they were discovered.

Finally, the ropes fell off. Gwaine grabbed the ring of keys from the second guard's belt and flipped through them. Most of them were small and shiny. Only a few were large enough to fit the cell doors and it was on his second try that he found the right one. The door swung open of its own accord. Inside, Cadeth stared at him incredulously.

"How, in the name of all that's good and holy, did you manage that?"

Gwaine tapped the side of his nose. "That would be telling."

He started to drag one of the guards into the cell and after a moment of hesitation, Cadeth came over and helped.

"How do you plan to get out?" he asked once there was no more evidence left outside of the cell about what had happened.

"With the help of these two lovely fellows." Gwaine started to quickly and efficiently strip the taller of the two guards of his armour, ramming it on as he went. "As of yet, no one know that there's even the possibility of an escape. No one will stop to question us." He tightened the chest plate and turned to his cell mate. "That is, of course, assuming that you're coming."

"Are you kidding?" Cadeth exclaimed. "I thought you'd never ask!"

And so it was that barely ten minutes later, two supposed guards came out of the cell, locking it behind them and leaving two men to wake up a few minutes later, bewildered and very cold. At first, Gwaine felt a small amount of pity for the two guards who had absolutely no idea what had happened; then he realised he didn't care.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

He could feel air against his cheeks. The sun was beating down uncomfortably on his back. Sweat trickled down his nose before slipping off, drop by drop.

And for the first time in two weeks, Merlin opened his eyes.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Will stood facing the entrance to the Great Hall, fists clenched by his side as he tried to burn a hole through the heavy wood. His eyes were burning with moisture that he struggled to hold back as he tried to comprehend the message Rilden had just delivered.

Merlin.

Coming here.

Now.

Injured.

And in a cage.

Coursing emotions that had been running free for the last three godforsaken weeks were trying to explode like the Court Healer's potions sometimes did and it was physically hurting not to let them burst out. "I need to hit something," he bit out to Hunith who stood behind him. She placed a gentle hand on his arm and through her grip, he could feel just how close to breaking down she was. He needed to be strong for her - but goddammit, it was hard.

The great doors were suddenly thrown open by guards with carefully blank faces, allowing entrance to the most sickening sight Will had ever seen. High Priestess Miriam led the way, a small, forced smile on here face. Alyss was supposed to have been with her, but she had taken over one of the guest chambers to help her 'set destiny right' in a complicated list of spells that had even made Miriam look confused.

Behind her, was a tall, balding man who walked with a slight limp. Will's heart hardened and his hand gripped the hilt of his sword involuntarily. Uther Pendragon's face was filled with contempt as he strode in as if everyone in the room was beneath him. Slightly behind, was Arthur Pendragon. His blond hair was greasy from a long week of travel and his clothes looked the worst for wear, although his armour and the sword swinging by his side had obviously just been polished. That was about right, Will thought with a sneer, a Pendragon looking after his weapons before himself.

A whole entourage of knights followed the two, their bright red cloaks sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the blue of Caerleon. Finally, two guards at the back were half carrying, half dragging a small figure.

Will's world stopped.

No longer could he feel the rage and helplessness and aggression that was consuming him just moments before. No longer could he hear the soft murmurs of courtiers in the background. Because that was Merlin - Merlin, who was barely conscious, his lead lolling about with glazed eyes that barely recognised what he was seeing.

Will had already taken one step forward and had half drawn his sword before he realised what he was doing. Immediately, the knights of Camelot responded in kind and Will froze. Uther was standing in front of him; barely four paces away. Will could make the distance in one lunge if he tried - one movement and the bane Caerleon would be gone, never to disturb the mortal world again.

Uther's eyes met his; cruel and hard in a way that seemed to almost challenge him.

And finally, Will remembered why he couldn't kill anyone in this room. He remembered why the Pendragon's had entered the castle in the first place. And he saw why, even if he would disregard the thousands of people under his care, he would never be able to do it. The cold, sharp point of a sword rested against Merlin's throat, held by a stone faced knight.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Will slid his sword back into its sheath and stepped back, his eyes never once leaving Merlin. After a moment, the knights of Camelot followed suit reluctantly. A sigh of relief was passed around the room.

"Welcome, Uther, Arthur," Hunith greeted graciously although her words were clipped. "Would you like to sit?" The only sign of he discomfort was in her twisting hands, clasped behind her back.

"No. Here will be just fine. Our business shall not take long."

Will swallowed. "And what is your business?" he asked, raising his head.

"The boy, Merlin. We are willing to give him back to you and to let you keep the throne if you swear fealty to me, Uther Pendragon, and Camelot."

"You can't be serious!"

"Deadly," Uther said with a strange smile. "Of course, I understand this is a weighty decision to make-"

"Out."

"Pardon?"

"Get out and leave Merlin in here. I need to talk to him. You have my word that we will not try to spirit him away - not that we could, with those chains on him," Will said bitterly.

Arthur leaned over to his father and whispered something and the king of Camelot nodded slowly.

"As you wish."

Uther turned on his heel and swept out of the room, Arthur and the knights following hurriedly. The two guards holding Merlin placed him down on the floor and all but ran from the room. The great doors shut loudly and ominously, leaving a great echoing silence.

Will ran forwards and fell to his knees by Merlin's still body. His eyelids were fluttering, his pupils unfocused as he stared at the ceiling. Hunith stopped just behind them, a hand raised to her mouth and tears falling freely. Will swallowed and shook his best friend's shoulder urgently.

"Merlin," he whispered, "come on, mate, wake up."

The warlock's head lolled to the side uselessly. Will dragged a hand across his face, wiping the moisture from his eyes.

"Come on! Wake up! You have to wake up, please, Merlin!"

Merlin's eyes snapped open abruptly, looking straight at Will, sparking with recognition.

"Will?"

"Yes, it's me. I'm here."

There was water on his cheeks. He was crying. Will couldn't bring himself to care.

"I - I thought you didn't cry," his friend whispered hoarsely.

"Yeah, well, that was a long time ago. Things have changed."

Merlin's lips twitched upwards. "I never thought I'd see you again. What happened?"

"It- well- I mean-" Will glanced at Hunith who shrugged, then gave a huge sob. "You're part of negotiations. Uther is willing to give you back to us and end the war if we swear fealty to him and Camelot."

"What?"

Merlin started to cough, his frail body racked with shudders. Will fumbled with his belt and unhooked his water skin, raising it to Merlin's lips and letting some water trickle into his mouth. Finally, he managed to start breathing normally and some colour returned to his face.

"You can't do it," Merlin said as soon as he could speak.

"I know that." Will ran a hand through his hair. "But Mer, there must be something we can do to save you!"

"Will, you know as well as I do that if you turn down Uther's offer, then there will be a battle. I might be killed. But you can't worry about that; Caerleon is your biggest worry."

Will looked away, trying to focus on anything that would simply make the situation less hopeless. "This wasn't how it was supposed to be," he whispered. "You were supposed to be King. None of this should have happened and it's all Uther's fault!"

"Will-"

"No! I thought I'd lost you Merlin, I thought you were dead for sure. And then I learnt that you were still alive - just - but in so much pain I can barely imagine. And now! Now you're here in front of me, but in just a few minutes, Uther Pendragon is going to march straight back in here and take you away and there's not a damn thing I can do about it."

He looked back at Merlin; his friend's eyes were filling with tears and now Will felt worse than ever because surely the warlock had his own problems to deal with amongst all of the pain which he must be feeling and now here he was, unloading his own problems onto him.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

The doors opened and a Rilden darted in. "Uther Pendragon refuses to wait any longer," he said quickly, shooting nervous looks from Will to Hunith, his gaze diligently never straying to Merlin.

Will looked over to Hunith. "Are you ready?" he asked.

She took a deep breath. "As ready as I'll ever be."

"Send them in."

Will looked down as Merlin got a weak hold on his arm.

"Please," his friend whispered, "whatever you do, don't let him take Caerleon. I'm not that important."

"Fine. I'll refuse the offer. But Merlin, you listen to me. Maybe you're not important enough to the whole of Caerleon, but goddammit, you are important to me and I swear, Merlin, I will rescue you somehow and I don't care what the consequences will be."

Uther was striding back into the room, his cold eyes appraising the scene. His entourage was following like a pack of dogs, close together and loyal to their leader.

"Well?" he demanded, his voice ringing around the room.

"We refuse. Camelot will never rule over Caerleon while I still have breath in my body."

They regarded each other, one King to another, for a single, long moment. Will set his jaw firmly, refusing to back down. Uther looked away first.

"Then you have sealed your fate."

Uther turned and strode away, the rest following, all apart from two guards who come to pick Merlin up.

"Careful," Will hissed, "that's a human being."

The guards didn't appear to hear and followed after the others as if they couldn't wait to get away. Will looked around. Rilden was still in the room along with several courtiers, all of whom were staring at him and Hunith. He couldn't stand their pity.

"Out!" he shouted and they looked at each other before following Uther's footsteps.

Will waited until there was no one left in the spacious hall except for Hunith and then he allowed his facade to break. His face crumbled and he almost fell to the floor. He started to cry.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

And so the pieces were set. There characters were in place and the show would surely go on. Alyss spared just a moment to let her gaze wander out of the window in the guest chambers, to the twinkling lights barely half a league away, that showed just exactly where Camelot's army was, ready to pounce. Her resolve hardened.

She would not let this destiny slip away from her - not this time. She _would_ set it right.

So she returned her attention to the vessel in front of her and resumed the chant, allowing the magic to pour out of her with its single task to set Destiny right. She had precious little time left and it would be best to use it wisely.

The fate of Albion rested in her hands, after all.


	14. Everything Has Changed

**Name: **Taken By The Storm

**Chapter:** Fourteen

**Summary: **Three knights. Two enemy princes. One war. The consequences will affect the whole of Albion. "When all is lost, how can you hope?"**  
**

**Warning:** Violence/gore. - If there was a rating between T and M, this would be it, mainly for one sentence in the scene with Illian.**  
**

**An: **Ouch. I said that I'd hopefully update more quickly 'cause I'd written a bit of this chapter already. Look where that got me. I had good intentions, honest! I was going to post on New Year's Eve. Turned out I couldn't write that quickly. On a note that's slightly more relevant, this chapter is extremely depressing and has some very violent moments. Read the warnings.

I hope you enjoy and as you read, please remember this story will have a happy ending. That is all.

* * *

Morgana's scream shattered the illusion of peace in Camelot's halls.

She sat up, frantically trying to get free of her bed covers, the sheen of sweat that covered her body only helping the silk to stick to her. Her legs finally came free, she twisted to the side, the floor coming to meet her with a sharp crack.

She lay there for a moment, glad for the cool stone against her cheek. It was a stark contrast to her flushed skin and helped to sooth her ragged gasps.

There was a knock on the door. "My lady?" someone called through.

"I - I'm fine," Morgana replied as best she could, even though she was anything but. "Just a dream."

The frantic beating of her heart refused to slow, blood rushing through her body, fast enough to make her feel faint - because this time, the vision had been clear. Now, for the first time since the dreams had started a week a go, she knew what was going to happen, knew how the battle would end and worse, knew _why_.

Bile rose in her mouth, the acid burning her throat. It mixed with a choked sob and sprayed into the air.

"No," she whimpered, "please, no."

Fury began to set in. She sat up, clutching to the bed post for support, tears hot in her eyes. The vision continued to flash through her mind.

"No," she said again, the knowledge that this was her fault making it hard to speak. She pulled herself to her feet and swayed, the tears making their way freely down her face, emotions filling her to her core, controlling her thoughts and her movements until the next thing she knew, her fist was numb with pain with a new dent in the wood in the bedpost.

This was her fault. She was the only one to blame and now there was not a thing she could do about it.

Morgana slumped onto her bed and wept.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Arthur stood at the entrance to his tent, gazing out over the land that separated him from Caerleon. The rising sun revealed a large expanse of barren land that, in days gone past, might have been covered in long, swaying grass covered in fresh morning dew.

Today, however, mist curled across the ground, adding a chill to the air, raising goosebumps on Arthur's arms.

His gaze stretched over to the battlements. The aged stone had stood the trial of time well and would be hard to breach, but that wasn't what drew his attention. There was a stretch along the north wall that he remembered from a royal visit, years upon years ago, when Camelot and Caerleon were still at peace. Balinor had still been alive. Arthur had stood by his father's side as the two kings discussed matters of state.

"Life is very simple here," Uther had commented, his tone disapproving.

"Nothing like the granduer of Camelot, I'm sure," Balinor replied evenly, "but it's how we like it here. It's the druid way of thinking, living with nature rather than against it."

Arthur wouldn't have remembered the moment, would have lost it against the countless memories he'd gained over his lifetime, but his sleep had been plagued with strange dreams. Except, they weren't dreams. He recognised the feeling from when Merlin had been held prisoner.

They were memories.

"Sire?"

Arthur looked to his right; a fair haired guard was looking at him in confusion, his bleary eyes showing that he had just woken up. A tent flap swung in the breeze behind him.

"You should be preparing yourself," Arthur told him. "We've got a long day ahead."

"I know." The guard looked down. "I'm scared," he admitted.

"You should be. This battle will be the most dangerous situation you have ever faced and probably ever will. If you're lucky enough to survive, it will probably be with an injury that could cause you pain for the rest of your life." Arthur softened. "But as long as you fight well and stay with the knights, you should be fine."

"T-thanks," the guard stuttered. He had suddenly gone very pale. For a brief moment, Arthur wondered if he had gone too far.

He shook the thought away; this was war. There _was_ no too far.

_What about torture?_ A small voice whispered at the back of his mind. _Is that not too far? You can still hear the screams, you know, you're never going to forget them. Was it worth it?_

Arthur scowled, focusing back on the guard. "Go on, go. You'll be useless in battle without armour."

The guard fled, his skin still void of any colour. Arthur watched him go, then turned back towards Caerleon. He wanted to sort out his thoughts, figure out what was going on because there was only one reason he would suddenly find himself remembering snatches of the past and it disturbed him more than ever.

The spell castor - and there must have been one, nothing else made sense - had chosen specific memories, ones with Balinor and Uther, sometimes Ygraine, always magic, and never anything else. They had preyed upon doubts which he hadn't even known existed before but were now causing him to question almost everything that he knew.

Because he'd seen things that would never make sense on their own, but put together, began to form a picture; a picture that Arthur wasn't sure he liked.

.

"_Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it wonderful that magic can be used for something pure?"_

.

"_Balinor isn't worthy to be king. He allows evil into the heart of his kingdom with open arms."_

.

"_Of course dragons are real! Arthur, my son, wait until you see one - the most magnificent creatures, so large and wonderful. One would struggle to fit in the Great Hall, would you believe?"_

.

"_Remember this, Arthur; sorcerers can be either your greatest weapon or your worst enemy. The trick is knowing which."_

.

"_Ygraine! No, stay with me, _please_!"_

.

"_Sorcery could have brought her back yet you refused to do so. Though it saddens me to say so, you have committed a treachery worse than I had ever imagined. I hereby sentence you, Nimueh, to death."_

.

"_But Father, what did that sorcerer do? Did he commit a crime?"_

.

"_Yes. He used the very thing that has brought evil upon us all. Magic."_

.

And it was magic that was causing him to remember all of this, the same evil that had supposedly killed his mother, the very person who had taken Arthur to the market to see a sorcerer juggle fire, the person who had sat by his bed at night, stroking his hair and telling him tales of great wizards and warriors who went on quests to faraway places until he fell asleep.

He kicked a stone. Remembering his mother always made him feel emotions that he'd learnt to repress since he was a little boy.

How did Merlin feel, when his father died? Did he weep and rage? Did he take the news quietly, then throw himself into as many activities as possible to stop himself from thinking about it?

No, that didn't sound like Merlin - what Arthur knew of him, anyway. He tried to steer his thoughts elsewhere so that the pang of guilt in his stomach, the one that he always got when he thought of Balinor, would go away.

The sun had risen a good way in the sky. The battle was closer now than ever and it was his duty to lead his knight's to what could be their deaths. He straightened up. Raised his head. He felt stronger like this, like if he could appear confident and act confident, then it was more likely to be true.

Uther would be waiting for him in the war tent along with the other advisors. It was time to move.

Arthur took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders and took one last look over the gently swaying grass that covered the expanse between him and Caerleon. Then he ducked back into his tent to change into his armour ready for the battle ahead.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Cold metal against bare skin made Will shiver as he crept forwards, one hand on the hilt of his sword to stop it from swinging against the stone walls.

A few hundred men trailed behind him, all trying their hardest to make any noise in the small passage, every step echoing softly. They were almost there, but the moment when they emerged into the open air couldn't come soon enough for any of them.

It seemed to take an age for the end of the tunnel to appear. When it did, Will heaved a sigh of relief and jogged up the steps, emerging into the forest gladly.

The trees were tall. Their leafy canopies provided plenty of cover which was part of the reason they had chosen to come this way. If Will squinted to his right, he could see the white canvas that marked out Camelot's camp. His stomach twisted uncomfortably. Somewhere over there, was Merlin, hurt and alone, but _alive_.

A knight, one of the new ones that Will didn't know very well, passed by.

"Report," Will barked at him and the poor man almost jumped out of his skin.

"Uh, we're still waiting for seventy or so to come out of the tunnels. A couple of knights are scouting the area, checking for guards, they'll be back in a minute."

They were back in two. Will fidgeted the whole time, ever conscious that every moment they waited was another moment when they could be discovered. A nervous energy filled him. His fingers started to twitch of their own accord.

"The watch guards have been taken care of," Sir Kael said quickly, keeping his voice low so as not to let it carry.

"And what else?"

Sir Thomas's lips twitched, his brow crinkled in thought. "We should send more men to the west side; it's less protected, though there is less room to manoeuvre."

"Send more of the less experienced knights with the group going west," Sir Kael advised.

Will nodded sharply. "Thomas, take five of your best men along with over a hundred of the knights. Kael, you're with me. We'll take the rest east and do our best that way; if all goes well, we'll meet the others on the battlefield."

Thomas took off. Will spied him tapping a few shoulders and before long, the forest was much less crowded and everyone left was looking at their King expectantly.

Will glanced around the knights, trying to pick them out and memorise their faces.

"Where are the drummer boys?" he asked.

"Back in the tunnels," supplied Kael. "They're ready at your word."

"Then I'm giving my word. We're moving out."

A guard, set apart from the knights by his worse-for-wear armour, ran off and reappeared a moment later. A drum beat started to sound, the noise muffled by the stone walls of the passage. With a few hand movements, Will signalled to his men and started to edge through the trees, closer to Camelot's army and closer to Merlin.

They reached the tree line. True to Sir Thomas's word, the watch guards had been taken care of and the path ahead lay clear.

Will stole a glance at his men, to make sure they were ready. Their face's were grim and their weapons at the ready. All they were waiting for was his word. He closed his eyes.

_This is for you, Merlin,_ he thought.

Someone yelled. His eyes snapped open. There was a knight of Camelot standing slack jawed, staring at them. Will's resolve hardened.

"For Caerleon!" he yelled.

Around him, knight and guard alike took up the cry, their voices mixing together.

They charged.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

"We're under attack!"

Arthur's hand, which had been about to point to a section of the map, froze. He wheeled around to face the newcomer, instantly recognising Sir Lancelot in doorway of the war tent.

"What?!"

"The Caerleon's sire." Lancelot was out of breath. He'd obviously run the whole way. "There are thousands of them. I don't know where they came from, they appeared out of nowhere."

"Magic," Uther spat without hesitation. He drew his sword, the metal hissing against its scabbard.

Arthur cursed loudly.

Their work, slaving over maps for hours now, was all for nothing. Against all of their predictions, the Caerleons had struck first.

"Sound the horns," Arthur ordered a servant who was hovering by the door. The boy scampered off.

Lancelot shifted his weight anxiously. "My lord, they are attacking as we speak."

Arthur shared a quick glance with his father, then ducked out of the tent, into the pale sunlight. Soldiers were running everywhere, most of them wearing their armour but some not. Even from this distance, the clashing of swords and weapons reached his ears accompanied by men's screams.

"With me!" he yelled loudly. Those nearby started to flock to him, falling into a well rehearsed formation as they moved forwards. Lancelot stayed by his side, face grim.

This wasn't supposed to have happened. Arthur was supposed to initiate the battle; he was the one who should have attacked first. Now they were caught unawares and unprepared, thousands of enemy soldiers on their doorstep.

They reached the brow of the hill. Arthur adjusted his grip on his sword, running a critical eye on the soldiers behind him - about two hundred strong. Joined with the thousand already engaged in battle, the men that had slept on the battlefield overnight, they would still be outnumbered four to one.

"Sire! Sire, wait!"

It was the boy who had sounded the alarm. He was red in the face and gasping for breath.

"Caerleons - attacking - need help," he managed to say.

Arthur gave him a dirty look and gestured to the battlefield in front of them. "Really."

"No - back - entrance - forest - Sir Walliams -"

Three hundred, maybe four hundred soldiers were gathered now, all waiting for Arthur's command. He tried to swallow but found there was a lump in his throat that made it impossible.

"Lancelot," he snapped. "Lead the charge. Help Sir Harold take this front."

Then he ran.

Soldiers stared after him. He called for some to join him until he had about fifty men, all of them clueless as to the situation but prepared for battle.

He could see them. Sorcerers, yelling and rampaging about the back end of the camp, smoke and fire surrounding them as canvas was set alight. Several knights of Camelot were trying to push them back but there was simply not enough.

Arthur made a few hand signals to his men. Then, with a yell, he sprinted forwards and joined the fray.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Illian was a druid. His main philosophy was peace. He was a pacifist.

It would be impossible to tell this from the way he was wielding his sword. He moved at great speed, slashing through every enemy in his path, sending spells at those who were out of reach.

No skill. No thought. No regret.

These were people who had declared war; sought to destroy the very thing had brought this land peace for so long; captured his prince and tortured him; and were now trying to take his home. And if his instincts of peace were strong, his instinct to protect was even stronger.

"Astrice!" he yelled and several soldiers were thrust backwards by an invisible force, two of them onto swords wielded by their friends.

Illian moved onto a knight, not even bothering at the pretence of a duel; with a simple word, the man slumped to the ground, dead.

Quiet. Methodical.

He spun his wrist, the sword catching the sun light and moved onto the next victim with tunnel vision.

He didn't even notice the knight behind him until a sword punctured his back and erupted through the front of his chest.

He looked down, cried out, and died.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Bedivere fought for all he was worth. His armour was scuffed and dented, blood was caked onto his skin and there were still thousands of Caerleons in front of him.

It was hopeless.

"Die!" someone screamed, turning the sword on him. Bedivere only just managed to dodge out of the way in time, and returned with a thrust, dispatching the man easily, turning away to face another.

Someone grabbed his arm; Bedivered almost sliced their head off before he recognised Sir Percival.

"Reinforcements," the quiet man said, pointing up the hill.

Bedivere followed his finger. Roughly two thousand soldiers bearing the flag of Camelot were marching down the hill. As soon as they arrived, the battle would turn in their favour, surely, and he could retreat; regain some breath and energy, maybe even bind his wounds.

He couldn't, not yet. Reinforcements were at least five minutes away and right now, Camelot needed every warrior they had and more.

A flying axe gazed his head. Bedivere cried out and ducked away, killing another soldier quickly. A quick duel with someone who actually knew how to use a sword earned him a slash across his knuckles. The blood made the hilt of his sword slippy so he swapped hands.

He needed a breather. His shoulders ached like fire, blood dripped across his vision constantly, his knees felt like they could give way at any moment.

A quick glance to take stock of the situation told him that Percival had moved away at some point; the reinforcements had almost arrived and he had been surrounded by the enemy.

With a fierce battle cry, Bedivere returned to fighting with a new strength born of desperation.

Corpses began to pile up around him. He gained more injuries to his arms and torso. They slowed him down, making him feel dizzy and nauseas, but he carried on.

If he ever hoped to see Eihblynn again then he needed to get back to the base camp, and for that, he needed to fight his way out of the sea of sorcerers that were in his way.

Shouts of fear and alarm drew his attention.

His fellow knights and soldiers, several metres away, were all pointing at something and backing away in fear. Dread roiling in his stomach, against his better judgement, Bedivere turned to look.

It was a whirlwind; that's what he thought at first. Don't be stupid, he told himself, not even sorcerers can control the elements, surely.

He looked closer, aware that he was no longer surrounded; in fact, there was no one but him left in this section of the battle field. He swallowed and wiped blood away from his face to clear his vision.

It was a man. No, not a man; a thing. It was no human. It moved incredibly fast, its sword cutting through men like a scythe on grass. It's features were elongated, warped and it was like nothing that Bedivere had ever heard of.

He cried out in alarm.

It was heading towards him, faster than he could ever imagine, faster than he could ever run and he gave up any pretence of bravery; he turned tail and ran, tripping over bodies.

Closer, closer it came like the Reaper himself. The battle was still happening; thousands of soldiers fighting tooth and nail, sword and magic, unaware of anything except the next sword stroke. Bedivere cried out again, tripped and fell. He rolled over to face the _thing_.

"No," he whimpered.

It's strange, elongated face was fixed in a snarl that drew attention to razor sharp teeth.

"No, no, _no!_"

He was due to be married! Eihblynn was waiting for him in Camelot, depending on him to come home. This couldn't, shouldn't be happening-

Four feet. Three feet. Two.

Bedivere reached for his sword desperately, dragging it through the dirt, raising it to pierce the creature-

_For Eihblynn, please, let me live, please God, let me-_

And with the carelessness of a leaf in the wind, Bedivere thought no more.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

_Arthur was seven years old. The wind ruffled his hair and cut through his clothes, making him shiver. He and his father stood on the battlements, looking out over the courtyard where a crowd had gathered to watch a sorcerer juggle fire._

_Uther grimaced. "Sorcerers are unnatural," he said quietly. "Never forget that, Arthur; they were not meant to walk this earth, despite what your mother may think."_

"_But Father, why does everyone like that man then?"_

"_Because they have no idea what he is capable of - the power that he holds and the treachery his heart could hold."_

.

Arthur snapped back to reality forcefully as a sword swung towards him; he raised his shield to take the force of the blow and retaliated quickly, dispatching the sorcerer cleanly and quickly.

He swore.

His shield arm was numb; his wrist sore from the sudden, unexpected movement - all because he'd been lost in a memory.

"Leon," he barked, looking around for his second in command.

"Here, sire."

The older knight looked worn. Blood ran down his forehead from a small cut - head wounds always did bleed more, Arthur remembered - and he was stooping over his sword that was embedded in the ground.

Arthur reached out to him and grasped his shoulder. They spoke no words; they didn't need to.

The battlefield around them was a mess. It was all too familiar to Arthur who had seen this sight multiple times within the past few months; patrols that had turned into ambushes, the first battle, the horrors when the dragon had attacked, before Balinor had put an end to it.

.

"_Balinor," Uther greeted in surprise, halfway down the steps that led to the courtyard. "You came."_

"_Dragons burning the city to ashes and the promise of your company," the foreign King said sardonically, "how could I not?"_

.

"Sire? Sire, are you alright?"

Arthur blinked. Leon was shaking him, his face masked with concern.

"What? Oh - I'm fine. It's nothing."

He waved away Leon's hand and grimaced, resisting the urge to lash out; this was the fourth or fifth time he'd been caught in the past against his own will. It couldn't be natural. Not with the way that every single memory made him feel a sense of injustice with every heartbeat, for no reason, nor the way that every one focused on Balinor, Uther and the war.

"I need you to lead a patrol through the camp," he said before he could be distracted. "I saw a few of the Caerleon's escape that way. One of them looked like King William. I'll take the rest and fight."

"Yes sire," Leon said, slowly straightening up. "At once." He called to some of the men that were nearby, the ones that weren't dragging the wounded towards the healer tent.

"And Leon?" Arthur called to his most trusted knight; "After that, go have your wounds looked at. I don't want you dying on me."

.

The battle field - the big one that is, the one which made Arthur's own recent battle look like a playground - was total carnage. Dots of red and gold that represented knights and soldiers of Camelot were spread out, interspersed with blue specks of Caerleons. Even at a glance Arthur could tell that the lines they would have formed at the beginning of the battle were completely smashed to pieces.

He yelled out a command and watched as his men behind him formed up into ranks, swords at the ready.

.

"_The Caerleons seek to take our land from us," Uther said bitterly. "They wish to set sorcerers loose amongst the kingdom, sowing hate and evil wherever they go. Camelot _must _defend itself_."

.

Arthur tore himself away from the memory, remembering the conversation just after Balinor's execution. He glanced up and down the ranks, ever conscious of the screams and pleas for help that echoed from the hundreds of dying men behind him. There was no time for a grand speech.

"We fight for Camelot," he said in a voice that he knew would carry. He turned away to face the battleground in front of him. He closed his eyes. "For Camelot!"

All around him, soldiers took up the call and it was that energy, that awe inspiring knowledge that these men relied on _him_, that they _trusted_ in him to get them out of this alive, that gave Arthur the will power to move his legs until his was walking, running, sprinting, a fierce yell forcing its way out of his mouth because he was Arthur Pendragon and Pendragons did _not _let other people win!

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Alyss, far away in the deepest part of the castle, summoned up the last of her energy as she came to the climax of the spell, threw her head back and cried out, "_Gemunan eower geosceaft ond macian riht hwelc sie unriht!_"

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Merlin felt the shock wave of magic, of pure awesome _power_, push straight through him. It felt _good_.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Arthur gasped and felt the onslaught of memories once more.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

"_You're a good man, Arthur. If things had been different, I think perhaps you and my son could have been good friends."_

"_Silence, Dragon Lord!"_

_._

"_Oh, Arthur, please don't cry. It's the cycle of life, it was always going to happen someday-"_

"_But mother, you're dying!"_

_._

"_Magic! Sorcery! It corrupts even the best of men until they commit that which they would not if they were in their right mind. It can take away even the kindest of souls - yes Arthur, even your mother."_

_._

"_Magic… magic has always been condemned by Uther ever since he was a boy, when his own father was taken away from him. He sees only the darkest evil in the art."_

"_But - you were a sorcerer once, you said so!"_

"_Yes, my boy. A long time ago. Now come; it doesn't do to dwell on such matters."_

_._

Arthur stumbled, seemingly moving in slow motion, as if the very world around him had chosen that moment to just freeze, memories more powerful than ever before consuming his mind.

_._

"_It is not what a sorcerer _has _done necessarily, it is what he _will _do. Magic corrupts, Arthur, never forget that."_

_._

"_I sentence you, Leaf, son of Atir, to death by hanging. Your crime; using magic."_

_._

"_Father, if King Balinor wishes to take Camelot for himself, then why doesn't he attack us? Why did you ask for his help to kill to the dragon?"_

"_Sorcerers are not like us. Their minds work in different ways that we cannot hope to understand."_

"_But you asked for his help. Why?"_

"_Because I had no choice!"_

_._

"_I sentence you, Balinor, son of Pellinor, to death by burning. Your crime; conspiring against the crown."_

_._

"_A message from Caerleon, sire."_

"_Well then? Speak, man!"_

"_It's from Prince Merlin himself. He says that this time you have gone too far. He says… he says that we are now at war."_

_._

Arthur pushed through the soldiers of Camelot, calling words of encouragement as he passed, his sword raised as he barged straight into the thick of it, trying his hardest to concentrate.

_._

"_Gaius, why did Prince Merlin declare war against Camelot?"_

"_Sire! What are you doing here?"_

"_Answer me, Gaius. Why did Prince Merlin declare war against Camelot?"_

_._

"_I - I suppose in vengeance of his father's death."_

_._

"_So tell me then; was it not really him that declared war?"_

"_Arthur, I don't know what you mean-"_

"_We murdered a king of a foreign kingdom, is that not an act of war in itself? Answer me, Gaius, please!"_

_._

"_Yes."_

_._

Arthur stopped stock still, midway through a strike towards a sorcerer. He couldn't believe it.

He remembered that conversation - or at least, he did now. He'd been conflicted, a life time of beliefs that had been drilled into him clashing against each other. He'd gone to see Gaius, just like he had when he was young, and they'd talked. It had felt like hours at the time, but in reality was only a few minutes. In the end, Arthur had gotten so worked up that Gaius gave him a sleeping draught.

A draught that must have also given him short term memory loss.

"Arthur!"

A huge body tackled Arthur to the ground and a split second later a large ball of fire soared over them, the heat reaching Arthur even from his place on the ground.

"Thank you," he told the knight, a huge giant of a man that could only be Sir Percival.

"Are you alright, sire? You seemed a bit out of it."

Arthur stared, eyes wide, pieces clicking together to form a picture that was finally visible to him, finally complete, its meaning clear.

"Sire?"

"This is wrong," he whispered, hardly even noticing the worried knight pulling him up, because he understood. He _knew_. And now he was going to do something about it.

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

Gwaine cursed loudly.

He'd taken a step forward onto what appeared to be solid ground but was actually a rabbit hole and went sprawling forwards face first. A snort of laughter made him shoot a glare over his shoulder.

"Oh, come on," Cadeth protested, "how am I expected not to laugh?"

Gwaine conceded the point and got up slowly, dusting his clothes off. "You didn't have to come with me, you know," he said, gazing out over the town before them - the one they had only just escaped from the night before.

"I know."

"We could get captured again."

"I know."

"There's a good chance we could get killed.

"I _know_."

There was silence for a moment as Gwaine marvelled at his new friend. Cenred's castle that was actually more of a fortress loomed over the land, casting a great big shadow over the forest they were currently stood at the edge of. Gwaine hadn't wanted to return here again and he was certain that Cadeth hadn't either, but here they were, all because Gwaine was going to do something too darn noble for his own good.

He cocked his head. "Good. Just checking. Got the wood?"

Cadeth nodded the affirmative. "And the fire potions. And the string."

Gwaine grunted. He checked for the reassurance of the sword at his hip. After all, when one was about to infiltrate a fortress on high alert looking for you and you friend who was coming along with you to sabotage their barracks full of soldiers so that they wouldn't invade the kingdom you'd gotten yourself banished, it was nice to have some small comforts.

"Right then. I'll see you in a few hours." He gave Cadeth a mock salute, then started to jog off. When he was halfway down the hill, he hesitated and called back over his shoulder, "And for heaven's sake, don't forget to pilfer some alcohol while you're there!"

Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm

"Sire? Sire, what are you doing?"

"This is wrong," Arthur muttered feverishly, pulling at his armour desperately, grabbing a hold of his shirt underneath and yanking. It actually hurt, something he hadn't expected, but the cloth finally ripped and he held a large rectangle of white cloth as long as his forearm.

"Arthur," Percival finally hissed angrily, "we're in the midst of battle, you need to move!"

"Have you got a stick?" Arthur asked, completely ignoring him. "Never mind."

He raised his sword and impaled the cloth on it. He waved it around to test if it would come loose, then smiled. He met Percival's gaze.

"Sire, you can't be about to do what I think your going to-"

"Stop!" Arthur yelled, cutting him off abruptly and raised his sword so that the white material that used to be his shirt flapped in the air. "Stop, I order you!"

A few soldiers froze, mid swing and simply stared at him.

"Arthur, your father," Percival hissed.

"I don't care what my father thinks, do you hear me? This battle, this war is _wrong _and I intend to fix it. Knights! Soldiers! Gather behind me!"

Slowly, Arthur started to gain control of his men. Some seemed to think they were simply re-forming the ranks and others stared at the make-shift white flag in their prince's hand. The battlefield began to clear some but there were still hundreds, possibly thousands of people still fighting.

"Take off your shirt," Arthur told Percival.

"What?"

"I _said_, take off your shirt. Make a flag - in fact all of you, everyone who is wearing a white shirt, take it off and impale it on your sword, spear or whatever weapon you hold! Now!"

Reluctantly, many of the men clearly beginning to fear for his sanity, they obeyed his command and within a short time, a sea of vaguely white, vaguely flag-like _things_ were waving in the air; Arthur saw as the Caerleon sorcerers began to shout to one another in confusion until - finally - the two armies were clearly divided across the battlefield.

"Sire," someone said by Arthur's shoulder. He jumped, recognised Leon and wondered when the older man had arrived. "Sire, meaning no disrespect, but what in the name of Camelot are you doing?"

"You'll see," Arthur promised.

A lone horse and rider was trotting across the field, also with a makeshift white flag, and Arthur squared himself up.

It was one of the Caerleon soldier's and he seemed incredulous. He cleared his throat. "I am sent as an ambassador for King William the fourth, to ascertain the meaning of… this." Clearly unable to sum up exactly what he was here to ascertain, the man gestured to the ranks of confused men waving white cloth impaled on their swords.

"I, Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot, am asking for a truce. I would like to discuss a private matter with King William himself. That is all."

"Right." The man wheeled his horse away quickly and returned to the Caerleon's at a pace a great deal faster than what he approached with. A few long minutes later, a small part broke away from the Caerleon lines, a proper truce flag raised above them.

"This is it, then," Arthur said. "Leon, Percival, Edmund, come with me." The three knights he had called closed around him and together, they moved off to meet the Caerleon party in no man's land.

King William stood by himself, five men standing a couple of metres behind him. Far enough away that thy wouldn't be imposing but close enough that they could step in to help if needed. None of them bore any weapons, though, as Arthur realised belatedly, sorcerers hardly needed weapons to fight. He wondered how William had managed to get the whole way across Camelot's camp.

"None of these men have magic," William said as if reading his thoughts, "and neither do I. I trust you will honour the truce as well. Now what do you wish to discuss?" His voice was full of bitterness and barely restrained anger.

"I want to stop the battle," Arthur said honestly. "I want to stop this war because some knew knowledge has come to my attention and I believe it to be unjust."

"And what does your father say about that? In fact, where is he?"

"I don't know," he replied evenly. "I doubt he evens knows of this encounter yet."

William appraised him with new eyes. He had just opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted; a short, dark fair haired man was running towards them as fast as his legs could carry him - that is to say, not very fast.

"Sire," he panted, doubling over and trying to catch his breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't know, I didn't see the flags, I'm so _sorry_."

"What is it?" William snapped, alarmed.

"It's Uther - Uther Pendragon. He's dying."

.

Arthur fell to his knees by his father's side. Uther's face was pale; he was slumped on the ground, using his sword for support.

"Ar - thur," he whispered.

"I'm here." Arthur cupped his father's head, placing it on his lap so that he wouldn't have to tire himself further. "Where is it you're hurt? Where are you injured?"

"My shoulder," Uther said after a pause. Feebly, he lifted his hand and gestured to the mess of blood and metal where a sword had clearly pierced his armour. Tentatively, ever so gently, Arthur probed the wound, pausing whenever his father hissed in pain. Finally he sat back, relieved.

"It's alright, the wound doesn't go too deep. It's messy, but nothing that a healer couldn't cope with."

But as soon as relief set in, it turned into anger.

"You!" He yelled, pointing at the short man who'd told them about Uther's injury. "You said he was dying! You said - why did you say that?! Is this some sort of deceit or trickery to try and get the upper hand while I'm otherwise occupied? Well?"

He trailed off abruptly because he'd just seen how pale the man had gone, whiter than a corpse, his hands shaking as his mouth formed words that weren't audible. A sick sense of dread settled in his stomach and finally, the man spoke.

"It's poisoned," he said. "My blade is poisoned."

.

"No," Arthur whispered in denial. "No! It's not true!"

Because it couldn't be - how could it? Uther was the strongest man he knew, he was his father for heaven's sake - and more than a capable swordsman. How was it possible that this man, this weak, pathetic, little _sorcerer_ had bested Uther Pendragon in a simple duel?

"Arthur," his father whisper, his voice weaker than ever. "It's true. It - it burns."

"No, father! Don't do this to me, _please._ Not you, too. Not after mother."

"She's proud of you. I'm sure. T-to think I'll see her soon brings me - me more joy than you could imagine."

"Don't give up, father, there must be a cure." Arthur turned his head to glare straight at the sorcerer who had caused all of this to happen, as if simply by glaring, the answer would be the right one.

The sorcerer shook his head minimally. "There's no cure," he gasped, "he's going to die."

"No! I refuse to believe it. You're a sorcerer, you have magic, _do_ something, anything!"

"I can't-"

"That's enough," William cut in and Arthur turned his anger onto him next.

"Was this your plan all along? To kill my father so that you could get you're petty revenge?" Oh, heaven's above, was he crying? "It won't work. It won't work, because my father is _strong_, he's going to survive, I know it."

And at the same time, he knew he didn't. Because no man went that pale, lost that much blood, could be in that much pain and possibly survive. He choked back a sob.

"Arthur," Uther whispered again and this time his voice was so quiet that Arthur had to lean down so that he could hear. "I'm… proud of… you."

It was like a stab wound to the stomach. How long had Arthur waited to hear those words? How often had he tried to give a hundred and ten percent, just so his father would even show a glimpse that he felt that way?

"Father," he choked. "Stay with me, please."

"Arthur… my son."

"Yes, I'm here, I'll always be here, you just need to stay with me-"

"My… son."

Uther gazed one last time into his son's eyes and smiled.

Then, he died.


End file.
